The Contract
by DIY Sheep
Summary: He laughed silently and hysterically: He was a human piano of pain. House the human piano of pain. It had a nice ring to it. Very dark: Strong HouseWilson friendship. Cuddy and Steve McQueen. Complete with DVD extras and missing scenes.
1. Chapter 1

WARNING TIME IS THE TIME WE LOVE THE BEST

Dear gentle reader

As philosopher and general naughty person, Stephen Fry once said, gratuitous sex and violence is very important when attempting to ruthlessly subvert family values.

In this story there will be use of expletives. So basically if you have never put the letters K. U. C. and F. together in any meaningful way just imagine that if you see them grouped together it means something along the lines of 'oh dear, I forgot the let the cat out. Poor Pussykins.' So every time someone says a word involving those letters they are just deeply deeply concerned about their cat.

If you do know what those letters could possibly form and don't approve – when you come to that part of the story – shut your eyes. That works for me every time.

There are also some rather nasty insinuations and a bit of 'whacking' as that Amish chick from the Harrison Ford movie Witness called it.

* * *

Agony and wood were all he was aware of. He imagined the pain throbbing through his body was making the wooden floorboards vibrate. He laughed silently and hysterically: He was a human piano of pain. House the human piano of pain. It had a nice ring to it… which reminded him: pianos don't sound like bells.

Pianos sound woody, not bingy. Where were the bells coming from? The bells of St Clemens. Saint Wilson probably. Wondering why he wasn't there to make with the oranges and lemons. He gingerly opened an eye, found himself eyeballing a dusty floor board and make a random mental note to bark at the cleaning lady. He watched disinterestedly as his breath moved the dust back and forth. It was daylight. He realised he was probably late for work, the bell was Wilson ringing him on the phone, and that he had better cover himself before anybody found out what sort of tune this human piano was playing.

He had always hated the funeral march.

* * *

It was Wilson; predictably, who first noticed something was wrong. Everyone else was used to House being a cranky, irritable, eccentric bastard and just put it down to the phases of the moon or the time of year.

But Wilson had walked into his office, stopped dead in front of the desk, put his hands on his hips and frowned. He examined the back of House as he sat staring out of the window. Something was wrong. Well this was House. Wrong was practically the definition of right, but today something different was wrong.

"Are you ok? Cuddy said you called in sick yesterday."

House didn't turn around. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine," but didn't elaborate. They stayed that way for a minute, until Wilson sighed softly in defeat and left the room. It was probably just the leg. It was winter. The leg always hurt more in winter. If he gave it some time he would get his friend back.

House didn't even hear him leave. He absentmindedly began to twirl his cane in his hands. He could see the hateful words when he shut his eyes – written in a dull red glow of pain against a black background: "You never know when we will come. It could be in a month. It could be the next day. But there will always be a next time."

* * *

"What happened to your face?" she asked.

"Bar fight last night. Made a hooker mad," he tried to smirk, but inwardly he just didn't feel up to it. Still he had to keep up appearances. Had to keep going.

Cuddy saw red. "You went to a bar last night? After you called in sick yesterday with a case of the flu?"

If she had looked closely she would have seen a flash of panic cross House's face. His mouth opened but no sound came out. He had totally forgotten his latest recovery 'excuse' but she was too incensed to notice and merely took his silence as an admission of guilt.

She rounded on him, finger waving wildly in his face.

"That sort of behaviour is unacceptable. You go to that clinic right now and you will do yesterday's clinic hours, today's clinic hours and an extra two more clinic hours for lying to me."

She fully expected him to start screaming the hospital down, arguing that hookers were an acceptable medical prescription for the flu or something ludicrous, but instead he just looked at her for a moment with almost an expression of relief before nodding quickly and limping off toward the clinic without a word.

Cuddy was dumbfounded. She watched the retreating figure. House not arguing with her? Perhaps he really was sick. She tapped her teeth thoughtfully with her pen. She would definitely have to talk to Wilson about this. His limp had been getting more pronounced lately. She wondered why.

* * *

It took minutes for the screaming to die down into a whimpering. Eventually his sobbing shuddering breaths subsided enough for him to open his eyes.

But there appeared to be no hurry. They had all night. He lay on the concrete, beyond pain. His eyes open, but staring at nothing, the occasional tremor twitching through his body.

Eventually, after an aching eternity, the question was asked and he flinched as the silence was broken.

"Are you ready to continue?" said the soft hateful voice.

He didn't look at his tormentor. There was no point. No mercy. Only the contract. That was all he lived for now. He merely nodded slowly, wrapped his arms around his head so tightly he felt his skull would crack and waited for the next blow to fall on his poor tortured leg.

* * *

The fellows were in the lounge, bored. House was late. Foreman was beside furious when House eventually limped in around lunchtime sporting a splint on one of his fingers.

"Jesus, not again," exclaimed Chase as he saw the cast. House ignored him and went straight for the coffee.

Cameron hit Chase angrily on the shoulder. "Another accident?" she asked tentatively.

House sighed into the coffee machine. "Yeah, I'm not as steady on my pins as I used to be," he said impatiently. "Fell over and landed on it wrong."

Foreman snorted. "Are you sure it isn't some pissed off bookie you owe money to?"

Rounding on Forman, House extravagantly waved his coffee stirrer in the air, but they could tell he was irritated and angry. "Actually, and I think you should know. Bookies traditionally break legs." He smirked nastily and made for his office. "Now if you will excuse me I will be in my office. Please give me at least ten minutes of peace before someone tells Wilson and he does his mother hen act."

* * *

He downed a couple of Vicodin, feeling them suggestively working their magic even before the drug burst into his system. The trick was to be numb. If you were numb you didn't remember what they did to you. You didn't relive them… again and again… You didn't have to think about… the feel of them… the touch… the blows… the hands pushing you down… the helplessness… your fists clenching in futility. If you were numb there was no pain. Vicodin took away his pain. If there was no pain you could continue on.

"House, are you okay?"

He looked up startled. Wilson had joined him on the balcony and was sliding over the dividing wall. "Just a little tired today, too many hookers last night... hey are those chips?" he said reaching out.

Wilson slapped his hand away. "Yes, and they are mine," he said as he slipped into the chair next to House.

House smirked. "You will have to let your guard down eventually. I can wait."

"Oh for lord's sake – have some," said Wilson, as he bashed the packet against House's chest, not noticing his wince. House took a handful and looked at them thoughtfully. "… takes away my pain, and he brings food – a win win situation," he said to the chips before stuffing them in his mouth.

"What did you say?" asked Wilson, looking over.

"Fuffinck," he said to Wilson with a chippie smile as he chewed the chips. For a while there was no pain and he continued on.

* * *

"Where's House?"

"Sick," said Cuddy.

Chase and Cameron exchanged meaningful looks. Foreman thumped his coffee cup down on the table.

The word everyone was thinking, but no one would say was: again.

* * *

House had always thought he was an expert on pain. He thought with the leg that he knew it all. But he realized the leg had only been the tip of the iceberg. There were so many variations of pain it was like a symphony. The short sharp searing pain that left you gasping. The long slow pain that gradually grew and grew until your whole body shook and you just desperately wanted it to end.

How much of one sort of pain you would suffer because it was better than the alternative. What had Cuddy said that day: 'the lesser of two evils.'

And he had never known there were so many ways to inflict pain. He marveled at how much human ingenuity and art had gone into the consideration of exactly how to inflict pain on another human being.

The lawyer was an expert. You could tell he loved his job: mixing the physical with the psychological. Sometimes it was brutal and harsh. Other times gentle but menacing, letting him do all the work, but all the time watching and drinking in his pain and fear.

* * *

Wilson stood in Cuddy's doorway with his hands on his hips. "There is something wrong," he said dramatically. "House isn't complaining about the pain."

Cuddy looked confused. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Come on! This is Gregory – I define myself by my pain – House," he exclaimed. "And you can clearly see the limp is getting worse. He isn't yelling. He isn't moaning. He isn't even getting angry, which is just downright peculiar. He is just claming up."

"So," she mused. "Maybe he is just dealing with it better. Wilson just looked at her. "OK, that was a dumb thing to say."

"He's miserable," said Wilson.

Cuddy frowned. "He's always miserable."

Wilson ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "But this is not the normal good miserable. This is bad miserable."

"How can you tell?"

"I'm his friend."

She could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

* * *

"So, do you wanna get some food tonight?"

House didn't even look up from the computer. "No."

Wilson tried again. "Are you sure? I haven't been over to your place for ages." He pulled out the big guns. 'I am pining for some good porn and I'll bring the beer.'

"I'm busy."

"You are always busy nowadays. What are you doing anyway," tried Wilson?

House kept his eyes on his work. "Quite obviously being busy."

Eventually Wilson left, not seeing the nervous glance House threw at his back as he went out the door.

* * *

Later that night

That night House kept one eye on the computer screen and one eye on Wilson. Good old predictable Jimmy. Even though it was near midnight Wilson was still in his office. Probably rolling joints for dying mums and spiking the red cordial with morphine for the balding kiddies - when he should be home tending to wifie and his own putative kiddies. If that man could only stop believing in romance and become bitter and disillusioned like him he'd be happy, he thought.

Although Wilson wasn't currently speaking to him, it made him feel a little safer knowing he was around. Stupid sodding wanker you are House, he thought. Wanting to be protected by the big bad oncologist. Wilson was about as bad and as big as a fluffy bunny rabbit. He couldn't even hold his own in a bar fight – as House well knew. A bar fight took a diagnostician who fought dirty and knew how to use a cane to inflict the maximum amount of damage.

But still the light coming from Wilson's balcony door reassured him. And, he mused, there must be something to a man who wasn't afraid to wield a pocket protector and still got the chicks.

House looked nervously through the glass of his office out into the hallway. The hospital was quiet – and dark. He gave an involuntary shiver. The dark used to be a comforting place. Now it was something to be feared. Feared, but never avoided.

Even as he worked frantically for an 'out', he began to run through the clauses in his mind as he worked. It was late, dark, and you never knew. It was always better to be prepared than face the consequences if they decided to test him.

Don't wanna forget Clause Five, Subsection Two again. He swallowed and shook his head. Not again… never again. He pulled up his shirtsleeve and looked at the numbers branded onto his forearm. Never would now would he, he thought. Clauses and subsections automatically began to run through his mind and he unconsciously began to mutter them under his breath as he turned his attention back to the screen.

Sometime later House reached out an arm to grab something from the printer. Halfway there he stopped. Something was wrong. He looked around in alarm. Wilson's light was off. Had he gone while House was working or was he asleep on the couch? Damn it – what exactly was the state of the marriage at this moment again? He knew he should have listened more closely. A knot began to twist in House's stomach. He looked at the corridor, but there was no one there.

He automatically reached into his pocket and grabbed a couple of pills. He noticed he was sweating and ran a shaky hand over his rough beard. They won't come tonight, he thought to himself desperately. It will be ok tonight. They won't come tonight. But he didn't believe himself. I'll check if Wilson is asleep on the couch, he thought. He didn't move. I'll check now. He tried to reach for his cane, but found he couldn't move.

Breathe you wanker. He realized he had used the word 'wanker' twice in one night. Christ I am picking up swear words from the Antipodean moron. Just go check, he told himself. Trying not to hyperventilate he fumbled around, found his cane and shoved it underneath himself. Eventually he managed to hoist himself to his feet. Pushing blindly through his glass door, he crashed out on to the balcony, rolled clumsily over the dividing wall and staggered to Wilson's door.

He pressed his nose to the glass, his hands grasping at the slick surface, but he couldn't see Wilson on the couch. Wilson was gone. He knew he shouldn't, but he felt sick, betrayed. It was his fault for snapping at Wilson earlier. And now he was alone – at night – in the dark. He slid down the glass, the sweat from his fingers leaving streaky marks on the glass. He stared around. Perhaps if he made himself small and hid here they wouldn't come for him tonight. Perhaps tonight would be ok. For one night he just wanted to be a little boy again and hide under the covers, safe from the monsters.

He shifted into the corner. He stayed there. He took another couple of pills. He eventually closed his eyes.

House woke sometime later, cold, stiff and a little damp from dew. He had no idea how long he had been asleep. He rubbed his hand over his face and looked around. He nearly sobbed in relief. It was dawn. Daylight, people and safety. Cause for celebration indeed he thought as he took another two Vicodin, stretched out his leg and rubbing it contentedly, he leaned back to enjoy the rising sun.

He didn't realize he had fallen back to sleep until he felt a foot nudge him. He started, then noticed that the foot was dressed in a very shiny shoe at the bottom of some well-tailored trousers. He was getting to the lab coat when a hand reached out, grabbed his hair, yanked his head back and a light was shone in his eyes.

'Argh Wilson, get that thing out of my eyes,' he said as he tried to bat the light away. His eyesight cleared and he found an angry looking Wilson staring down at him.

Wilson stood up and put his hands on his hips. 'Well, I find you sleeping on my balcony like some homeless person and I'm wondering if you had overdosed or were just drunk.'

'No, it wasn't anything like that. I just…' he trailed off, feeling a little guilty. If Wilson had mentioned homeless people, considering his brother, it meant he was mad.

'Just what,' prompted Wilson sternly, like a disapproving parent?

House's mind grasped around for something to say. 'Just such a nice night,' he said lamely as he struggled to get up.

'Riight,' said Wilson dubiously. But House knew he was forgiven when Wilson grabbed the back of House's jacket collar and hoisted him to his feet, giving him a rough shake for good measure. You have to love Jewish mommas, thought House.

'Get into my office you limping twerp,' he ordered. 'Jesus you're freezing cold … and wet.' He kept his grip on the jacket and continued to scold House as he dragged him inside and dumped him on the couch, but House didn't hear. He just let Wilson's Jewish mother act wash over him. Bring on the chicken soup.

* * *

"Where did you find him again," asked Cuddy incredulously?

"On my balcony: asleep."

Cuddy sighed. "I swear that man is getting stranger by the day. Should I put psychiatrics on standby?"

Wilson snorted and looked at the ceiling. "House in a straight jacket. Now why does that have a certain allure?"

"What did you do," asked Cuddy, bringing him out of his fantasy?

"Gave him a cup of coffee and sent him home," said Wilson simply. He shrugged. "What else is there to do?"

* * *

House limped happily to the car, full of Vicodin, coffee and Wilson's chicken soup of the soul.

As he approached the car he saw there was a note taped to the windscreen. The constant knot in his stomach twisted and the coffee threatened to rise in his gorge. He didn't want to look at it. Every fiber of his being wanted to run away as fast as he could.

Run! What an amusing notion, he thought absentmindedly. Human instinct was a powerful thing. Even the man who could barely walk wanted to run. Run away and hide in the deepest darkest corner of the world where no one would ever find him.

With trembling hands he reached out for the note like a man condemned. He was in trouble. He wasn't allowed to hide, to run, but instinct had overtaken him last night. Had he upset his new masters?

He unfolded the paper and read it.

_Park in your own damn spot House or I'll call Cuddy and make sure she gives you so many clinic hours you will die there._

_Dr McKinsky_

House laughed silently in relief. He imagined McKinsky turning puce with rage. The most terrible thing in McKinsky's life was having to park three spots down and heave his fat ass another ten steps. All those people out there worrying about the little things. Giving themselves heart attacks over bills and taxes and wardrobe malfunctions. If only they knew, he thought as he hysterically wheezed. You try going through life never knowing if today will be the day you are going to be taken.

Eventually his fit ended. He leaned over the front of the car, taking in deep shuddering breaths, calming himself, when he noticed a PS on the bottom of the note. Puzzled he turned it over. There were only two words written, in different handwriting, on the back: 'Uh Oh'. He heard a noise behind him and froze. He starred glassily at his own distorted reflection in the cherry red bonnet as it was joined by another.

"Like I said Greg: anywhere, anytime."

House closed his eyes. He descended into the darkness. He felt his cane taken from him and strong hands grip his arms, pulling them behind him as they pushed him down onto the cool metal of the bonnet. He felt the handcuffs as they bit into his flesh. They didn't need too cuff him. He went with them when they asked.

Sometimes they took him violently, sometimes gently, but the first time had been the worst. After he had signed the lawyer had gestured to the door. He had walked with them to the car: numb. It was too surreal. It couldn't really be happening.

* * *

"In the back," said the lawyer.

House made for the back door of the sedan, but the man stopped him. "No Greg, like I said. You ride in the back."

He looked over and saw another man opening the trunk. He felt ill. It was then it had hit home that this was real. He nodded and moved to the back of the car.

* * *

He did everything they wanted. But sometimes they liked a physical reminder that he was helpless, powerless. He couldn't run. A man with a cane can't run.

He didn't resist as they took him away. Very rarely does the condemned man struggle on the way to the gallows.

* * *

Two months later

House was rifling through a stack of papers. Gotta find out who, he thought. It's been months, but if you keep looking there might be a way out. A loophole so to speak. Or simply he could find out who the bastard behind this and strangle him with his own intestines. That would stop him. He was the best diagnostician in the world, he thought with a snort. He could solve this miserable little puzzle.

He looked at his watch. 3AM. He was tired and his leg hurt. He popped another couple of Vicodin and a caffeine tablet.

It was dark in House's apartment. The only light came from the computer screen. He typed in another name to the search engine and began to read, when a notice popped up on his computer.

You've got mail.

Considering he didn't have a 'you've got mail' notification thingamie on his computer this was odd. His heart sunk. He checked his email and there was one new message. 'To Gregory' was all it said in the title.

All the bravado leaked out of him. He closed his eyes for a second then hit it.

_You can search all you like, but unless I deign to tell, you will never know._

_I think I may have to invoke Clause Twelve, Subsection Seven for this. _

_What do you think Greg?_

House stared wide-eyed at the words on the screen. He read them again and again and again. For over an hour he sat there, his eyes wandering over the keyboard, his hands held crossed in front of him, his teeth chattering gently together even though it wasn't cold. He was in trouble. Not allowed to ask questions: clause 3. Not allowed to try to find out who: clause 4. But he thought he could get away with it. He hadn't. And now he was going to be punished. Special pain was a coming down the House line.

Eventually he picked up his right hand. It felt like it weighed a tonne. It was like pushing through sand. He slumped it over the mouse and hit the reply button.

What do you think Greg?

Only Stacy had ever called him Greg. Only Greg had loved Stacy. Now these bastards got to bandy it around whenever they fucking well liked.

But - Clause Two: he owned nothing now. His home had been his sanctuary, but even that was about to be violated. He had nothing left. He knew that. Clause One: they even owned him. He had sold his soul when he had signed. They could call him any damn thing they liked.

He knew he had no choice. He typed YES and hit the send button.

Seconds later the doorbell rang. He stood up slowly and limped over to answer it with his head down.

"Evening Greg," said the man cheerfully as he came in. "Nice night for it."

"Yes sir," he mumbled, shifting slightly. He had never quite worked out what the etiquette was in this sort of situation, but he knew the lawyer bastard had a quick temper – and he was quick to boot. One second you're on your feet. The next you are rolling on the floor in agony, never knowing what hit you, while he stood over you gently saying he didn't care much for your tone of voice and would you please not do it again.

"The cane?" the man prompted.

House looked around. There it was. His cane. His little wooden friend. Leaning up against the bookcase, ready to step in uncomplaining and be the leg he didn't have any more. He quickly twisted round and tentatively handed it to the other man then backed off a few steps.

The man tested the weight of the cane in his hands. "Are you going to be good or…" he said not taking his eyes off the cane, but the implications were clear?

House frantically shook his head. "No," he stammered. At the man's sharp look he amended his words. "No sir, I'll be good. I don't need to be… I won't…" He trailed off. He didn't want to say the word 'scream'.

The man pushed the handle of the cane under his chin. "That's the spirit Greg." He looked around, all suddenly full of bonhomie. "Dear me Greg. It is a lovely flat, but there isn't room to swing a cat…" he smiled evilly and House flinched at the menace in his eyes. "… let alone a cane."

He sighed. "Never mind. We can always push the couch over to the wall." He looked up at House's stricken face. "Don't look so glum Greg. All it takes is a bit of ingenuity."

* * *

Later that day

Brenda burst into Cuddy's office. Cuddy took one look at her expression and said "House."

Brenda nodded, but Cuddy noticed there was a look of panic in the nurse's normally unflappable demeanor.

When she got out there she realized why. The head of diagnostic medicine was having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the clinic.

House was slumped against a wall; his cane lying abandoned a few feet away. He had drawn up his knees and was shaking, his face pressed into the wall.

Everyone in the clinic was staring at him in shock. There was a fat young man standing over him, apologizing profusely. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to knock you over," he kept repeating stupidly.

Cuddy took charge. She turned to Brenda. "Get Wilson," she instructed urgently. "I don't care where he is or what he is doing – or even what he says. Find him and get him here," she hissed to the nurse.

"What the hell happened?" she asked the man.

He looked at her bewildered. "I didn't push him hard. I just bumped into him and he stumbled against the wall."

She dismissed the man and crouched down next to House. He looked terrible. He was sweaty and white as a sheet.

"House," she said loudly, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Is it the leg?"

He flinched, but didn't answer. He just groaned, squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tried to push himself further into the wall.

Cuddy looked at him in disbelief. What in God's name was going on? Everyone knew he had been steadily getting worse – crankier, viciously lashing out at people, driving everyone away, more pills, the balcony incident… He looked terrible - haggard and drawn, but what the hell was this.

At that moment Wilson arrived. He took one look at the scene and was at his friend's side in an instant.

"Oh House, what have you done to yourself this time?" he said sadly as he tried to gently to get House to uncurl so he could look at him.

At Wilson's touch House looked at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Why do you always assume it is my fault?" he said softly. Then almost to himself he said: "It usually is isn't it? That must be why I am being punished." But he allowed Wilson to stretch out his leg.

Wilson began to run his big gentle hands over House's leg, but he didn't think the problem lay there.

"Jesus House. When was the last time you slept – or ate? You look like a corpse."

"We should get him to an exam room and take a look at him," said Cuddy.

At this House jumped. "No!" he spat out hurriedly. He took a deep breath and looked up at them. "I'll be fine," he continued. "Just help me get to my office."

Wilson reached out to hand him the cane.

"No," House rasped. "Not the cane. Not today – you."

"Well since you ask so nicely," replied Wilson, but he helped House up and together they slowly made their way to House's office. Wilson took the opportunity to surreptitiously examine his friend. He was in pain and it wasn't just the leg. He was breathing shallowly and erratically and he couldn't hide the wincing he made with every step.

After getting House settled with a cup of hot sweet tea and strict – upon pain of death instructions - to drink it Wilson looked up and saw Cuddy standing outside House's office, looking in thoughtfully. Wilson joined her.

"Take him home and look after him," she said softly. "See if you can actually get him to tell you what the hell is going on."

* * *

"For God's sake," Wilson exclaimed. "I know you are hurt. Did you get into another bar fight?" The emphasis was on the 'another'. "You could have internal injuries. You need to let me have a look at you," he said in exasperation.

"And what the hell is it with all this?" he said gesturing to the mounds of files and papers piled everywhere in the flat. House hadn't allowed Wilson in his flat for months and now he saw why. The place was drowning in paper work. Wilson was aghast. House, the man who hated paperwork only as much as he hated American Idol was wallowing in it – at home.

House just stood in the centre of his living room swaying slightly, but saying nothing. He had refused to even take off his jacket. He just buttoned it up and wrapped his arms around himself. Now the two men were at a stalemate. Standing six feet apart from each other, eying the other. It wasn't much of a Mexican standoff. A contest between a normal healthy six-foot American male and a pale sweaty shaking cripple who could barely stand should be inevitable.

But, as usual, it was Wilson who lost. "All right then, at least sit down before you fall down." For some reason the couch was shoved up against the fireplace, not caring he violently shoved it round until it faced the kitchen, pushed the papers off it and sent them to fluttering to join the others on the floor. Then he stepped back and looked expectantly at House.

House eyed him warily as if he suspected Wilson might try something, but holstered his metaphorical gun, crossed to the couch and sat down.

At this Wilson relented. "I'll make you something to eat." He looked at the mound of papers that used to be the coffee table. "Where's the TV remote?"

"Dunno," murmured House to the floor.

Wilson sighed inwardly. He didn't think it could be possible for House to get even more miserable, but if the man wasn't watching TV, dear God what did that say. He manually turned on the TV and went into the kitchen to see what he could find in House's kitchen.

Just judging by House's state, he couldn't weigh more than 130 pounds, so predictably there was nothing edible except some feral smelling milk. The kitchen was filthy. It was filed with plates that looked like they had been abandoned months ago, empty cereal boxes and more piles of papers. What had happened to House's cleaning lady? The bombshell that was House's living room said she had probably given up in despair.

He picked up a random piece of paper an examined it with puzzlement. On it was names. It was a list of people's names and next to some were diseases. He riffled through a couple of other stacks. There was a mix of strange documents – photocopied patient files, medical records, but some were just lists and lists of names.

He saw one name he recognized. Terry McCross: Wilson remembered this case because he had been brought in to consult. It was one of House's old cases from a few years ago. He rifled through the folder. Surprised to find it not only contained McCross' medical records, but follow up information and even a news story from last year about McCross winning a local marathon. Why was House making an archive of all his old patients? Why was he collecting personal information about them? It didn't make sense – House hated patients.

Wilson ended up calling out for some Chinese – soup for House and a couple of dishes for himself, although he didn't feel much like eating. They sat side by side on House's watching a Frasier marathon. House ate, but remained mute and tense, staring intently at the television as if his life depended on it. Wilson didn't push it. He knew how much Vicodin House had taken. Exhaustion would kick in eventually.

Wilson smiled softly to himself as the final credits rolled. As Frasier sung about tossed salads and scrambled eggs he looked down and watched House as he slept. Somewhere during Daphne and Nile's marriage House had toppled over sideways. His head was buried into Wilson's side and he was now growling softly into Wilson's liver, in what Wilson presumed was the Housian version of a snore. Sometime earlier in his sleep he had reached up and grabbed the front of Wilson's shirt and even now he still gripped it tightly as if it was a lifeline.

Apart from the hand you could almost believe House looked content. As Frasier left the building Wilson reflected this was something he hadn't seen in his friend for a long time.

Wilson turned of the TV, reached out to turn off the light, and leant back into the deep couch. With one hand on his friend's shoulders and the other behind his own head he let House's sleepy growling soothe him to sleep. For a while Wilson was content too.

* * *

Wilson woke with a start. He was pinned down by something large and heavy. And it was rumbling.

House.

He eyed House, who was now half sprawled across him and currently drooling gently onto his leg. Checking to see if House was still out of it Wilson reached out and gently began to try to lift up the back of House's jacket.

Suddenly he felt a strong hand around his wrist.

He looked down and saw House staring back up at him intently.

"Don't Jimmy. Just don't," was all House said.

* * *

It was a lovely hot day. They were ambling along with their coffees searching for a table at the outdoor café. House sped up. 'Their' table was free. Buoyed by the drugs pumping through his system for a brief moment House felt free of the crushing burden he carried with him every day, focusing on nothing but the lure of the unguarded table.

Go cripple go, he thought as he made a beeline for their favourite table, ready to beat all challengers into submission with his cane. Then suddenly something stopped him.

House turned round to see Wilson had stopped a few steps back and was staring at him frozen.

"Greg," he said slowly.

"Oh, the use of my first name. It must be serious," he said semi-smiling.

But Wilson didn't smile back.

"There is blood on the back of your shirt," he said simply.

House changed in an instant and looked at him with a blank 'don't go there' stare that had become all too familiar of late. The only time Wilson thought he'd gotten a semi straight answer out of House was the other day. They had both been on the balcony.

"So what's really with all those pieces of paper and records at your house… House?" he said awkwardly.

House must have been feeling philosophical because he sighed quietly. He looked tired and defeated. "A failed attempt at hope."

But this time he wasn't budging.

"Yeah, cut myself," he said. His eyes telling Wilson in no uncertain terms to stop.

Wilson was silent for a minute. He contemplated taking up the challenge. Eventually he backed down, but he was still seething with anger. "You better go change your shirt then," he said through gritted teeth.

"Yeah," agreed House and started to go.

"House…"

"Fuck off Jimmy," said House, not looking back as he dumped his coffee on the table and walked off. The holiday over. The weight of the burden returning as he remembered the sound of each crack of the whip.

Wilson stared at House's back. Something was finally beginning to give. "Fuck off yourself," replied Wilson softly to House's back.

* * *

Pain is my constant companion, he thought dreamily as he stood in the shower washing off the blood. Vicodin is my bestest bestest friend. Scotch is church on Sunday. Cocaine is a presidential visit.

* * *

"He is getting too close. You were careless. He is gonna find out. And then what will happen eh Greg? You will have broken the contract. Know what happens then eh Greg? Clause Ten."

House could only gasp in pain, as his arm was twisted higher and higher up his back. He shook his head desperately and tried to speak, but he could feel the tendons wrenching and ripping and all that emerged was a whimper.

The pain lessened a bit as the arm was lowered and the voice went on.

"I don't think we are up to Clause Ten just yet. How about a compromise? Would you agree for a compromise with Clause Five, Subsection Seven? I think my client would agree to that."

The arm was jolted up a fraction and House gasped. He nodded miserably. He knew every clause in the contract off by heart and knew what that one meant. But there was no alternative.

"Rightioh then – one, two three:" Then all House knew was his scream exploding in his ears as his arm was broken.

The bastards were good. They had made sure it was the left one.

* * *

"What the hell is wrong with you?" exclaimed Wilson angrily, pacing up and down the room as House sat, head down, behind his desk, his broken arm slumped in front of him. "Are you getting into masochism now? Isn't the leg enough? Are you getting off on being tied up and beaten up?"

"Go away," growled House dangerously to the tabletop. His eyes tight shut with pain at what he had to do.

"No, I am not going to let you do this to yourself."

"Yes you bloody well are," House yelled out. He continued in a quieter tone. "If you know what's good for you?"

"What's good for me," cried Wilson in disbelief. "You stupid son of a bitch. When did you ever give a flying damn for me? Every time things go wrong – I am the one picking up the pieces," he snarled.

House sucked in air viciously. "And did it ever occur to you that I didn't want you there 'picking up the pieces' as you call it. I never wanted or needed…" he sneered. "…you, at all."

At this Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, dead. Just standing there, his mouth hanging open, years of friendship leaking out of him like water from a punctured bag.

He looked so hurt that House nearly broke. A little bit of him died that day.

"What?" Wilson trailed off stupidly. Staring at his friend in disbelief.

House heaved himself to his feet. "Fuck you Saint Jimmy. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I am sick of listening to your marital problems, sick of you making sure I am ok and that I eat my fucking greens."

His voice rose in volume. "I am sick and tired of you. No, I don't give a damn about you. I don't want to see you or have to listen to you whine about me to me. Leave me alone," he yelled, as he threw his cane his best and only friend.

It hit Wilson across his chest and fell to the floor with a dull thump.

The scene was a perfect painful tableau for a second:

Cameron, Chase and Foreman half out of their seats in the next room, frozen with shock at the sight before them: Wilson and House staring at each other over the abandoned cane. The first Mexican standoff House actually wanted to lose.

Wilson was the one to break the impasse. He shook his head to one side and took a deep breath. He reached down slowly, picked up the cane and looked down at it thoughtfully for a minute. He looked up at House and held the cane out in front of him, one hand at each end. Then, not taking his eyes off House, in an act of savagery, he brought his foot up, kicked it viciously in the middle and snapped it in two.

The cane made a sickening cracking sound as it splintered, the dry wood sending little sharp shards flying around the room.

House flinched at the sound, but didn't move as Wilson gently put the two halves of the cane on his desk and walked out of the office for the last time.

* * *

Cameron was blunt as she handed House the metal cane, borrowed from orthopedics.

"Dr Cuddy says she has a meeting for about the next fifteen minutes, but that if you are not standing in front of her desk when she gets back to her office you are fired."

When Cuddy came in he was standing where he was meant to be, stomping the borrowed cane against the floor gently. Watching it intently as it bounced against the springy floorboards.

She didn't say a word or even look at him until she sat down. He didn't look up at her. He just continued to study the cane as it bounced.

"Normally when you do something stupid I suspend you and you get a week off sitting around in your underwear watching daytime TV." She paused. "Not a big change from the usual I know."

House said nothing. The gentle stomping continued.

"But this House," Cuddy looked at the wall. "This has to be – and I am saying this as your boss and as your friend, has to be one of the worst things in a long line of terrible things, that you have ever done."

Thump thump thump.

Irritated at his lack of attention she thumped her hand down on the table. "House, Am I boring you?"

He looked at her blankly. He wasn't all there. It took a second for him to realize he was meant to respond. In that second she was sure she saw a flash of absolute agony on his face. But then he blinked and it was gone.

"No Dr Cuddy. Please continue." He lowered his head and went back to thumping the cane.

"On a personal level: if you want to fight with Doctor Wilson, I can't do anything. You two are supposedly grown ups. Technically I cannot do anything, but this hospital has standards and a code of conduct regarding violence and I can punish you under that."

If he wanted misery she would give him misery. "I am suspending you as the head of diagnostics for the next week. Foreman's in charge. You are confined to full time clinic duty."

Normally this would have provoked an outcry, but House only stopped his tapping, nodded and turned to go. Her voice stopped him.

"House."

He turned to look at her.

"And this is my personal punishment," she paused. "I will put a chair outside my office. Every time you are not with a patient you will be sitting in that chair. If I find one instance or report of you doing anything untoward you will get another week of clinic duty – and the chair - and so on and so on until you get the message. Do you understand me?"

House nodded, but said nothing.

"Do you understand me?" she repeated more forcefully.

"Yes Ma'am," he whispered. "May I go now?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

* * *

She didn't acknowledge him the first morning when she came in to find him sitting hunched over in the chair by her door.

All week she ignored him, as he just sat there, waiting for the next patient chart to be handed to him: silent, solitary and sent to Coventry. Word of the incident had got around the hospital. Not even Nurse Brenda would talk to him. She would just throw the charts into his lap. Every time he wasn't needed he returned quietly to the chair and sat down.

On odd occasions when a clinic patient had taken his seat she would see him standing next to it, slumped over his cane, still the borrowed one from orthopedics. This puzzled her. Guilt usually never even crossed House's radar. But this time it seemed that he almost wanted to be punished. Wasn't Chase the Catholic?

She only said two words to him that week: when she found him sitting in his chair at six thirty on Friday evening, still sitting there. They were 'go home.'

He said two words back: 'Yes Ma'am.'

The next Monday things returned to a certain normalcy. House was in charge of his department again. Wilson was the head of Oncology. Their offices were next door. House could still see Wilson's light when he worked late. The only difference was they didn't speak any more.

* * *

"House, go home."

He looked over to Wilson's office. "I don't want to," he said stubbornly.

"Cameron tells me you haven't been out of the hospital for days."

"Doesn't matter where I am. But I hate waiting alone," he said still looking at the balcony.

What a peculiar thing to say, thought Cuddy. "House, go home."

He looked up at her to see if he could push it, but she was standing firm. He dropped his head and sighed. Under her watchful eye he very slowly picked up his cane and began to make his way out of the office. He paused at the door for a second and drew a deep breath as if gathering courage, before flinging it open and striding slowly down the corridor.

That man, she thought dryly, was a fruitloop.

* * *

Three months later

He hated them, but they kept coming. Just hiccups, he thought. Big boys don't cry. He was on punishment detail again. Cuddy had found her ultimate weapon. Perpetual clinic or as he liked to call it – perpetual Hell. He was sitting in 'his chair', outside Cuddy's office. Trying desperately to not be there, to be blank, to be nothing – a big ball of six foot two nothing.

Fueled by Vicodin and a dash of cocaine he had managed to get into work on time this morning. To walk to his chair. To sit down without screaming about the fucking injustice of it all. He clenched his fists. He hugged himself tightly. Not my fault, he thought petulantly.

But Cuddy hadn't seen it that way. She had tipped a saucepan of water over him, shaken him to consciousness, sat him up on the couch, made him coffee, which she practically poured down his throat, and then, when she judged he had been cognizant enough, she had slapped him – hard. He still had the red mark on his cheek.

She told him that she was never going to do this again for him, as she emptied the bottles into the sink. Told him that he better be sitting in 'his chair' at eight thirty the next morning or not to bother ever coming in again, as she made him a piece of toast and slapped the plate down hard on the coffee table making him wince.

Then she took out the key she had let her self in with. He noticed it was Wilson's key – the one with the W scratched into it. Wilson had kept it. House's heart had leapt. He'd kept it. He watched mesmerized as Cuddy dropped it into his lap.

After she left time slowed. It must have been late. He sat dripping on the couch as night fell and he stared at the key. Eventually he reached down and picked it up, turning it round in his hand, looking at it, letting it fill his mind. Wilson had kept it – until now. On your own now bucko, he thought.

In the clinic House sat so still he looked like a statue: 'Thinking Man with Cane'. But every so often a memory would pop up and a hiccuppy sob would force its way to the surface. He would beat it back with all the strength and anger he could find.

But the memories wouldn't go away. The fingers digging into him in a grotesque parody of a caress; the hot breath whispering in his ear that the first time was always the worst. His soft whimper as he'd realized the implications of that statement. A whole new world of pain. The shudder he'd tried to suppress as he heard the soft clinking of the belt buckle. And he could still taste and feel the burning of the scotch he'd used to forget the shame.

He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stared hard at the floor, but the hiccups still came. He suddenly panicked. His palms were sweaty and his mouth was dry. He felt nauseous. He realized he was going to lose it. He wanted to run, run away and never come back, but he knew if he did that he would be punished. He snorted: days in purgatory and nights in Hell.

He shakily got to his feet and put on his blandest face. He knocked softly on Cuddy's door. She looked up at him suspiciously.

"Do you mind if I take an early lunch" he asked? She frowned. "A short one," he offered, his hand closing on the door handle in a death grip, his knuckles turning white.

Although his heart was twisting and churning he attempted to smile or at least leer in a charming manner. "Please."

At this Cuddy relented. "You have fifteen minutes," she said looking at her watch. "11.49 exactly."

He gave a curt nod of thanks and made it to the men's room before he gave in. For ten minutes he silently screamed and raged and wept as he hugged a toilet bowl like a teddy bear, snot and tears dripping down his face as he gave in to the agony. All he could think of was the gaping hole in his chest.

He was a human being and he wanted his friend. His friend was a much better teddy bear than a toilet.

At 11.48 he walked back into the clinic, downed four Vicodin and blandly smiled at his next patient: an expectant mother.

A little bit more of him had just died.

* * *

Chapter 2

There was blood. Blood everywhere. He could taste it, smell it, feel it sliming under him in some places and drying sticky and hard to his skin in others.

He couldn't open his eyes. He didn't want to know who it was. Whose blood he was drowning in. He scrunched his eyes tight.

"It's not fair," he whimpered pathetically. "I did what you wanted. I did everything you wanted. I kept my side of the bargain." He shook his head softly from side to side, a low keening wail escaping from his lips.

Cuddy was in her office when the phone rang. "It's House," he stated dully.

She pursed her lips. "And let me guess… you are sick today. You have had more supposed sick days in the last year than all the other eight years combined. This can't go on House."

"I know," he said interrupting her. "It's not going to. Cameron is dead and I will go to jail for her murder, so I guess I better resign now." With that he put the phone down leaving Cuddy staring in horror and disbelief at the dead receiver.

On the other end of the phone House punched in 911 with sticky red fingers that left smears on the telephone receiver. He ignored the operator on the other end and simply told her there had been a murder. He gave his name and address. He was about to hang up when he paused. "So I guess you are going to send some guys around. I'll leave the door open for you."

With that he put the phone down and wearily began to pull himself off the bed, looking for his cane. He found it a few feet away from the bed. Judging by the gore on the handle it had clearly been the murder weapon. Nice touch, he thought to himself as he limped slowly to the front door.

* * *

Wilson was sitting at their table. It was just habit, automatically following patterns long established. There was nothing sentimental about this table he thought to himself. It's just a damn table. It doesn't mean anything to you. Not anymore.

Two interns were sitting nearby. He picked up snatches of their conversation.

"…it was gruesome, blood everywhere."

"He got life. Only escaped the death penalty because he was a cripple."

Wilson realized who they were talking about. He looked down at his sandwich, suddenly feeling sick at the sight of it.

They hadn't spoken for six months before Cameron's death. Occasionally Wilson would see House hobbling around the hospital, but for the most part he stayed holed up in his office.

Feeling guilty, Wilson had tried to talk to House, make friends again, but House refused to even look at him. In that typical Housian way of his he would just pretend Wilson wasn't even in the room and then find the first excuse to bolt. Eventually he had just given up. The gossip filled the halls of the Princeton Plains-borough Teaching Hospital. The strangest and strongest friendship in its history had broken. Finally, Gregory House had finally driven James Wilson away. An era was over.

Cuddy had taken over his prescription, but Wilson was sure House was doing something else. He was jumpy and jittery. On the rare occasions he left his office Wilson could see House looked terrible. In the spate of only one year House had gone from moderately miserable to walking dead. Even his walk had changed into a grotesque lopsided mechanical gait. He looked like he ran on clockwork. His body still carrying out the motions on automatic as he shambled down the corridors.

He'd stopped bothering to even call in sick. He would just turn up the next day and slump down on the chair that was now permanently stationed outside Cuddy's office.

Cuddy watched him wind down sadly; knowing that sooner or later the rubber band would break and it would all come to a shuddering halt. She knew she couldn't protect him forever. People were starting to talk. House looked and acted like a zombie. He rarely talked and his once expressive blue eyes were dead and empty.

* * *

There was no one to talk to anyway. No one to tell. Even he couldn't believe it. That fucking lawyer had outdone himself one night. Not a blow had been struck, but it had taken every little last piece of feeling in control he had. Tied down, stretched out… Gone from a human being into something to be used and abused at will - just a party piece. Listening as they laughed and drank and snorted cocaine. Waiting for the next one to have his fun.

Normally he tried to wash away the pain with long hot showers that scalded his body or drown himself in scotch, but this time he had simply thought 'fuck it'. He was too exhausted to care. He had simply crawled from where they'd dumped him to the couch, curled up and shut down a part of him.

* * *

Cuddy had known something was really wrong when House stopped being passionate about his work. She kept telling him to do his job, but he didn't seem to care. He just wasn't really there. He had just watched dispassionately as all the toys he loved, even the big squishy ball, had been gathered up and taken away – not to be returned until he improved his performance. But even this had no effect on his behaviour.

For a time he continued working and his team covered well for him, but by the end, just before Cameron's death, all he did was sit in his office, his cases ignored, just staring at the door, as if waiting for something.

They all knew it would end, but no one expected it would end like it did.

"He was doing drugs they reckon. Drove him over the edge. He flipped out and killed her. Claimed he didn't remember anything, but he still pleaded guilty."

The casually brutal summation of the murder brought up fresh memories of that terrible time. All thoughts of their fight were wiped from Wilson's mind as he rushed to House's, not knowing from Cuddy's garbled message what to expect.

"Let me help you," he had pleaded on that horrible day in House's apartment. Police in big boots trampled through the living room in a frenzy of activity. In the middle of it all House sat stiffly on the couch with his hands cuffed behind his back and blood on his shirt. There was an officer on each side of him; not knowing they were guarding a man who could barely walk, let alone run.

Then House had done something strange. He had smiled bitterly and replied: "I'm sorry Jimmy, but I can't." Wilson didn't know it; didn't realize it then because he was in shock, but later he would remember House had called him 'Jimmy' again and would spend sleepless nights pondering why.

The detective in charge came over eyeing House with disgust. "Get him out of here," he said to the two officers. As they hoisted House to his feet he hissed with pain and tried to double over. Wilson wondered when was the last time House had taken a Vicodin.

"He has a bad leg. He needs his cane and his painkillers," pleaded Wilson.

The detective looked at Wilson in surprise. "A bad leg?" he said incredulously. "He has a bad leg does he? Listen mister, that lady in there has a bad everything, so quite frankly one bad leg isn't all that impressive. Who the hell is guy anyway?" he asked, rounding on one of the police officers.

"Said he was a doctor sir," said one nervously.

"Look," said Wilson. "He can't stand without his cane and he is chronic pain. Please take his cane."

The detective moved in on Wilson. "I'd love to oblige Doctor," he said. The scorn evident in his voice. "But that was what he bashed her head in with."

Wilson took a step back in shock and looked at House. But the other doctor kept his head down and his eyes firmly planted on the floor.

The detective smirked at House. "Got a bad leg do we." House glanced up at him fearfully and saw what was coming. The detective tapped the left one with his clipboard. "This one?" he asked. "Or this one," he said as he viciously hit the right, managing to hit the exact spot of the infarction. Eyes tight shut and his back hunched, House bit back a spasm of pain and tried to curl over his leg, but was dragged back up by his collar.

The detective smiled up at the officers. "Yep – that's the one boys. Make sure you are careful with it." The smile left his face and he looked at Wilson. "Drag him if you have to."

Wilson watched helplessly as the two officers ignored House's cries of pain and pulled him away.

"Scum," said the detective viciously under his breath, but loudly enough so Wilson would hear it. He turned back. "What is your exact relationship with him sir?"

Wilson thought for a moment. All the myriad possibilities going round his mind. Finally he picked one.

"I'm his friend."

* * *

The voices of the interns brought him back to the present.

"How long do you think it took before he ended up in solitary?"

"Knowing him… about a week."

The two interns laughed.

* * *

Chapter 3

"Hello Gregory."

House looked up from where he was lying awkwardly on the cell cot. He was exhausted. He had spent hours, chained to an uncomfortable interview chair, unable to move or stretch, repeating his story for a succession of angry detectives and police officers, who thought nothing of giving him a good whack around the head if he was too slow in answering their questions.

Quietly, again and again, he had asked them to just lock him away. He was guilty. He was sorry. Lock him up and throw away the key. He didn't care. He would admit to anything they wanted to be able to lie down with a couple of Vicodin.

But when he had mentioned his drugs they had laughed. His heart sunk. He wasn't going to get any Vicodin. This was the start of a new level of suffering. How clever, he thought. How very very clever. And then of course: there was Cameron. An innocent victim in this horrible game.

He stared at the man on the other side of the bars for a few seconds. His leg throbbed and he was suffering through Vicodin withdrawal. It had been 15 hours without even an aspirin. He couldn't even see straight.

"Oh, it's you," he said dully. "I thought you would turn up at some point."

"Do you know what happens now?"

He laughed drunkenly. "I can take a guess. I go to jail and you find a nice bunch of homies who will fuck me up the ass once a week for the rest of my life."

The other man smiled indulgently. "Something like that."

"Well at least that makes a change from you," he said.

House rolled himself over until he fell off the cot onto the filthy floor of the cell. He pulled himself painfully to his knees.

"Can you tell me why? Why wasn't I enough? I did what you wanted."

He used the cell bars to pull himself to his feet and stood swaying in front of the other man. "Why did you take Cameron?" He looked around hopelessly. "I'm a mean nasty bastard, but she… she was so nauseatingly good and innocent."

All he got was an apologetic smile. "You were getting too complacent Greg – and doing too many drugs."

So that was it: a whole new world of pain.

The man continued. "As to Ms Cameron…Unfortunately at this time my client is not ready to divulge that information." He paused and tapped his chin thoughtfully. "But, if I had to give a hint… I would have to say I think you may have answered your own question. Why do innocent people die?" He raised his eyebrows: "The stupidity of others perhaps?"

Then he left: leaving House bewildered, but at least with a new piece of the puzzle to take his mind off his constant companion.

* * *

The next time House was angry:

"Give me one good reason for not telling," he said. "I did everything you wanted and you still killed Cameron. What is to stop you from killing someone else?"

The man smiled indulgently. "Gregers… Do you mind if I call you Gregers. We have shared so much together."

"Yes I do mind if you call me Gregers," he said recklessly.

The smile fell from the man's face. "Yes, but Gregers even though there are bars between us, as usual I am in control and you just have to 'take it', but you are good at that aren't you Greg? I could always arrange a lesson if you have forgotten."

The man paused. House said nothing, remembering standing before him in the factory, naked and shivering while the lawyer decided exactly how to hurt him this time.

"A lesson in taking it – that is," continued the lawyer menacingly. "Even here: so, want me to arrange something special?"

House saw the threat and knew his torturer could make good on his promises. "No sir, sorry sir," he mumbled begrudgingly. Lessons - all too painfully learnt. Any flash of anger or perceived disobedience, and he would be brutally punished - more. He didn't think things could get any worse than what he usually went through, but he hadn't counted on the lawyer's inventiveness.

The man smiled. "Good boy Greggers. Now, down to business. The contract still stands – the main clause stays the same, but now there is an added clause: Cuddy, Foreman, Chase – and what do you say we throw in mom and dad for good measure." It was not a question.

House ground his teeth so hard he could hear them squeak.

"What do I have to do?"

"Nothing. It's all arranged," he said. "Just take it like a man."

'Take it like a man'. House hated that phrase. It was what his father used to say to him before he thrashed him. "Now son, you have to take your licks like a man," he'd say as he unbuckled his belt.

House narrowed his eyes as he stared at the man. "It is going to get worse isn't it?" Now they could do what they liked to him twenty four hours a day. "It is only partially about Cameron isn't it?"

But the lawyer ignored the question. "Don't worry Greggers, I'll be keeping in touch," said the man as he passed the contract and a knife through the bars. "Just a thumb print will do."

Typical fucking lawyer.

* * *

Wilson watched Steve as he ran. Steve really loved that little wheel. He never grew tired of it.

And it was ironic that House had really loved Steve. Only House would have a rat for a pet, thought Wilson. There had to be some important message in that somewhere?

House hadn't let anyone help him. The trial had been brutal and swift. House didn't even ask for a lawyer. Wilson had offered to help, but the only thing House had asked him to do was look after Steve.

As House had let himself go more and more he'd lavished more and more on Steve. Steve now resided in the biggest cage he had ever seen. He had special food and so many toys it wasn't funny. There were toys to push, toys to chew and even a rat-sized burrow to sleep in. He laughed as he imagined House in the pet store buying them and terrorizing the poor sales assistant.

"No, they are not for a cat, they are for my rat… yes I have a disease ridden rodent I picked up in my ex's attic… and I had to cure him of the black plague before I could keep him – do you have a problem with that?"

Wilson waggled his finger in between the bars and Steve ran up and nibbled a bit on the end of it as a sort of hello before deciding to go back to his wheel.

The rat of a rat. But Steve was loved and cared for – in fact, it looked like he was getting a bit fat. Stick with the wheel Steven or you'll die young like your namesake.

Wilson sat back and watched Steve as he ran furiously, but went nowhere. How like life?

* * *

House's chains rattled in time with the rhythm of the bus. He was still wearing the suit he had been wearing on the last day of court – his sentencing. That was the same day he had been struck off the medical register:

"You've got mail," said the officer as he handed the letter through the bars. "Read it quick and give it back."

When he had put his suit on that morning he knew it would be the last time he would ever wear a suit again. When he had read the letter he knew that day would also be the last time anyone would call him 'Doctor'. He looked out the grimy windows at the fields. I hope I look good in stripes, he thought absently – otherwise I'm screwed.

* * *

Chapter 4

He was luckier than most because he was used to being pushed around by morons. Shut the fuck up, he mentally whispered to the idiot beside him as they were led inside. Shut up before the guard sees you and beats the shit out of you. Haven't you seen The Shawshank redemption?

But the guy continued to blubber.

Yeah we know you don't deserve to be here. No one deserves to be here. He gave a small inward laugh. I don't deserve to be here. But here I am standing in a line with chains on my hands, bells on my feet and rings on my toes.

The guard came over and he closed his eyes. He didn't want to see.

Which was why he didn't see the fist that hit him in the face.

But when he woke up face down on the floor with a broken nose he heard them talking:

"This one?"

"He's the only white guy with a limp ain't he?"

He saw polished shoes come to a stop in front of him. He felt a knee on his back and his head was wrenched back by his hair. He could taste his blood as it flowed down the back of his throat.

"Don't know what is so special about you boy," said the owner of the shoes thoughtfully. "You gonna be good?"

He tried to swallow some of the blood flowing from his nose. "Yes sir," he rasped.

An arm circled his throat choking him. "We'll give you this one since you were asleep during the briefing, but in future you answer everyone here 'Sir Yes Sir Boss Sir' convict."

He tried to nod, but he couldn't breathe. He just gasped uselessly until he his head was pushed down hard into the floor.

He gulped in air. "Sir Yes Sir Boss Sir," he managed.

"Pity we can't kill him. He deserves it."

"Don't worry. We'll just make him wish he was dead."

I already wish I were, thought House. I wish I had never been born.

* * *

House looked up. What the? He had been so busy taking his frustration out on some poor little innocent rock that he had lost track of his surroundings. It was ironic. The guards thought it was hilarious. He couldn't work on the chain gang so they made him sit and break rocks between his legs, just like the convicts of old in Australia did. It was exhausting work, but secretly he loved it. Everyday he got to smash and destroy. A tiny bit of power in a powerless existence.

But where was every one else? The rest of the gang had gone. They must have moved on up the road and forgotten him. Well that was the easiest prison break in history, he thought. Although he had a suspicion it had been done deliberately. You just don't forget someone like Gregory House.

He grabbed his cane, almost automatically locking the handcuff around his wrist before he stopped himself. He didn't have to this time. No nasty prison guards to beat him if he didn't do what he was told.

He looked at the sorry excuse that was his mobility. It was nothing like the sleek wooden cane from before. He never would have thought he would miss that, but now he longed for the surety it had provided.

His tormentor was rich he had decided... really rich. The whole 'torment Greg House' set up must have cost a fortune as it was, but it also seemed he had bribed half the prison to make his life hell, well more hellish. There were the regular 'visits' from the boys that made his nights an endless waiting game of fear, the guards who found every excuse to punish him – and even more ingenious torments. The prison doctor had ignored his protests, diagnosed muscle strain and given him Tylenol. He had looked at the man in disbelief.

"How much did you get paid," he asked quietly. He was furious. Idiots hurting him he could understand and cope with, but doctors…

The doctor looked up from his chart.

"What?"

"How much did you get paid to ignore all your medical training, your Hippocratic Oath and prostitute yourself?" he repeated.

There was a tense silence between the two men. House nearly had him. But eventually the money won out and the man looked away. It must have been a bucket load he thought.

But no matter how they tried to pretend, a man missing half his thigh muscle and in constant pain simply can't walk unassisted. But giving a prisoner a big stick was just unacceptable. So they had come up with the 'bit of pipe chained to the wrist' solution as House like to think of it.

It was a couple of bits of PVC piping stuck together with a handcuff on the end of a chain that was attached to the cross section. This, he assumed, was so the other inmates wouldn't steal it from him and try to stick it up his ass or beat someone to death with it.

It was flimsy and he had to live with the constant fear that it might not hold his weight. But then again constant fear was a constant in prison. That was why they called it constant. And at least the pipe allowed him some mobility.

He climbed painfully up his cane and looked around. He was in the middle of nowhere. A cripple, with leg irons, a PVC pipe doubling as a cane and wearing a black and white cartoon prison uniform complete with a little stripey hat.

So I'm sure to make it Mexico, he thought dryly.

But it was a lovely day. The sun was warm and comfortable in that delightful lazy way that made him think of fishing and Huckleberry Fin. That had to be on the plus side. No bars or screaming. And he was free – relatively – with the chains and all. But he decided he wasn't going to let that stop him. This was a window of opportunity. In the distance he could see a house. They would have water and hopefully a phone so he could call up his jail and get them to come pick him up.

"Hello, this is Gregory House. I am a prisoner at your institution and a convicted murderer serving a life sentence without parole. You left me behind today. I was just wondering - before you call out the sniffer dogs, start the manhunt and all, could you come and pick me up from number 76 Orange Road? I'll wait by the mail box."

Oh yeah.

He was gonna get it big time. Of all the prisons to be sent to, he had to get this one. This was the toughest prison in the country. Thanks to that idiot Baby Bush, new criminal law reforms were being trialed.

'America is being overrun. Bring back the cane, the lash, and the chain gang,' cried the right-wingers. The electric chair skeleton said 'hey what's cookin.' Thank you Allen Ginsberg. Gotta love those beatnik poets, he thought. There had been many who had called for his own death. What they didn't know was that he was not meant to die, but suffer. He was being punished. But for what - he didn't know yet. It was the ultimate tortuous puzzle for a man like House. So here he was – suffering in every which way but loose.

His prison was the flagship for the changes. The prison was run military style. You stood to attention, marched in time, made sure your uniform was perfect and called everyone sir or you got walloped. Although you generally got walloped anyway – him more than most.

You worked every day for twelve hours for nothing. In the olden days this used to be called slavery. Now it was called being tough on crime. And of course most of the prison population was black, there on drug charges because Bush Daddy's 'war on drugs' had failed. It was the modern version of American slavery. They hadn't changed the concept, just the name. Now that was clever.

And speaking of every which way, but loose…or in this case 'including loose': the escaping thing was not going to go down well.

Solitary again.

He thought about the future. On the down side when he got back he probably wasn't going to see daylight for months, they would beat him and generally make him want to die. But on the plus side – it was a lovely day and he could smell jasmine: the perfect day for a walk. He threw his hat on the ground, stomped on it a few times and set off for the farmhouse. His chains made a merry tinkling sound as he limped along, marching in time to the buzzing of the bees.

* * *

"I'm Greg."

"I'm Tim."

"Nice to meet you Tim. Do you think you could put the shot gun down?"

"You are a criminal."

There was a pause. "No, I'm a convict."

"There is a difference?"

"A convict is someone who lives in prison, as you can see – that's me, and I even have the stripey shirt to prove it. A criminal is someone who does bad things."

"But don't you have to be a criminal to go to prison."

House sighed. "Not 100 percent of the time – no – and most of them hang out at the White House." He frowned, ever the analyst. "But it helps." He looked at the boy. "Look, you need to rest and I need to lower my arms." He tried his most charming smile, which he suspected looked more like a lopsided leer. "They hurt." Too many nights hanging from the rafters in the factory.

"Good."

"What do you mean good? I could have murdered a guy who did 'naughty things' to my sister."

"Did you?"

House screwed up his face and looked thoughtful. "No."

"Then keep them up."

"Oh come on," said House in annoyance, but he kept his hands up. He didn't want to get shot by a frightened boy. He had to live. There were people to live for.

And he had an idea.

* * *

Later

"Do you have any money?"

"Of course I don't have any god damn money."

"But you were the one who called them!"

"I'm desperate prison escapee. Look at me! I'll do anything. This is Thelma and Louise territory."

Tim looked from side to side, ten to one he had no idea who Thelma and Louise were, thought House.

"What will I do?" asked the boy timidly.

House sighed. The youth of today, he thought. Far too moralistic. "Okay – here is the plan. I am the convict and I look all desperate and crazy right?" He made his best Jimmy Cagney face.

Apparently it wasn't very good because Tim just laughed. "Right," he said dubiously.

"So when the guy comes I make with the menace and bingo – we get the pizza."

"But what will they do to you?"

House rubbed his chin. He looked conspiratorial. "No one has ever got the death penalty for nicking pizza." He crossed his fingers. "So far... so I take the rap," said House

Tim smiled. "And then we eat the pizza."

House smiled too. He was practically salivating at the thought of real food. "Pizza."

* * *

"Tim, thanks."

"What for?"

"A decent conversation. Do you know how long it has been since I had a conversation that didn't consist of bend over and spread 'em?"

"What does that mean?"

"Never you mind."

"Did you really escape?"

"I didn't actually escape. Technically they left me behind." He sighed and tried not to let his mind wander to the future. "But they won't see it that way. And the whole pizza thing won't go down to well either."

"It was your idea."

House leaned back. "And so worth it. Did you see the look on that delivery guy's face?"

They laughed.

House hadn't laughed in a long time.

* * *

Some time later they were sitting on the front steps of the little house finishing off the last of the pizza.

"So why are you in prison if you aren't a criminal?"

"Ever had someone, someone who meant so much to you that you would do anything for them?"

Tim looked down at the dirt. "Yeah, my mum. She works so hard and she never gets mad – even when I do dumb stuff."

"Well there is this guy…"

"A guy," said Tim spluttering on his pizza.

House rolled his eyes. "No – it is not like that. For God's sake."

Tim sighed. "I like guys," he said quietly.

"Well, good for you. I like tits and ass, but I don't go on about it. Actually I do – so good for you," said House offhandedly. "But this is my story, not yours. So I get to do all the angsting."

House eyed his slice of pizza thoughtfully before continuing. "There is this guy, and some other people, and I do what I have to do to make sure they are safe."

"So you are in jail because you want these people to be safe?" confirmed Tim.

"Yeah."

"It sounds weird."

House took a bite of his pizza. "Weird doesn't even begin to describe it, but that is life Tim my boy."

They looked up as they heard the distant wail of sirens in the background. Back to reality. House smiled grimly. "That's my ride."

* * *

Wilson watched sadly as House was practically carried into the courtroom by two troopers. He felt sick as he looked at the irons on his friend. How could we do this to people, he thought. There were heavy chains around his ankles and waist, and his hands were cuffed behind him.

House was left that way throughout the entire trial – chained and defeated. He looked pale and thin in his faded striped uniform. It hung on him like a coat on a hanger. He sat in the dock staring down at the table, dwarfed by the troopers on either side of him. Throughout the trial he never moved. Never even gave any signal he knew what was happening to him. He never looked around. Never knew Wilson was sitting there, watching him, his heart aching at seeing House like this.

What Wilson couldn't see were the bruises underneath the uniform that ran down the length of his body.

House had told the boy to go inside. He didn't want him to see what was going to happen, but Tim had watched from the window as the man who he had come to think of as okay was hurt.

When they had arrived House had been standing in the yard, arms out as if crucified. It did no good. The next few minutes had passed in a blur of screaming men and pain as he was violently forced to the ground and cuffed.

His head was wrenched back and someone sprayed pepper spray into his face. He tried to writhe, but the knee in the centre of his back held him down. A boot thudded into his side, knocking the breath from him.

He faintly heard laughter, then the voice of his section officer. "Leave him boys. We'll take care of him when we get him back to the prison." Then he was picked up like a sack of flour and thrown in the back of the van for the ride back to Hell. He lay on the floor of the van, feeling the guards' feet resting on his back, and wondered if it was worth praying to God at this point.

* * *

Nightsticks hurt he thought absently. He lay splayed out on the floor where they had dumped him, too exhausted to even move his head; gently drooling blood and mucus onto the concrete. He did a quick inventory. He was still blind from the pepper spray, but that didn't matter, as one of his eyes was closed shut and the punishment cell was pitch black anyway. So, in an absurd way, that was a plus. But the rest of him had been pummeled something but good. He'd be peeing blood for a month. He struggled to find something to count as a plus. Eventually he decided it was good because at least it took the pain away from the leg.

But he knew he didn't believe his lie.

A little bit more of him had died that day. He could tell. He could feel his tears of shame and pain dripping down his face.

But on the plus side, they would wash the pepper spray out of his eyes. See – there is always a bright side young Gregory. You just have to find it.

Eventually he drifted off into an exhausted sleep, waking up only once with a vague dream memory of being slapped by a woman with exceptional breasts. Strangely enough that had hurt more than anything they had done to him ever had.

* * *

"There are some people who should never be allowed to darken society's doorstep ever again. I am just glad there is never any chance you will ever be released," said the judge pompously. "Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?"

House just continued to stare down at the table. His court appointed lawyer quickly stood up and mumbled a sentence or two about how his client was sorry.

"Ridiculous as it is, I have to sentence you. Five years for the escape attempt and two years for aggravated assault and robbery with violence; and a further five for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer and a prison guard."

House mentally snorted as he hung between the troopers for sentencing. Did the judge really believe he sounded credible? Oooo – the officers had done a good job of saying how scared they were of the cripple with the plastic pipe. So now he was not only a murderer, but also a vicious violent dangerous escapee robber. All he'd wanted to be was a doctor. Maybe I should look at it like a second career, he thought stupidly. I could get business cards made up: Gregory House, V.V.D.E.R. BA - Murd.

House was brought back to the present as the judge continued. The next words chilled him to the bone. "I can only hope your warden takes the appropriate steps to ensure you are securely confined and imposes suitable punitive measures."

* * *

Chapter 5

It was so simple it was elegant. They took away his cane and made him walk. All day, every day: rain, hail or shine. It was delightfully ironic that something so basic could be such an effective form of torture.

The days became a never ending cycle of pain. He followed the lines… 27 painful hop steps, made all the more difficult by the heavy leg irons he now constantly wore – now there was no escape from the chains - turn left, another 27 steps, turn left, another 27 steps, turn left, another 27 steps: again and again and again until inevitably his leg would go and he would collapse face down in the dirt, gasping for the air he needed as he desperately tried to pick himself up again before they noticed and came for him.

But they always came. At first he would thrash pitifully: plead with them that if they gave him a little time he could still walk and not to put him in the box, but then, after they broke his jaw in two places, he decided he didn't care.

He would just lie on the ground and wait for them to carry him away and put him into the dog box: a tiny crate barely big enough to fit a man and the most feared punishment in the prison. If it was hot you cooked. If it was cold you froze and if it was raining you got wet.

They would stuff him in like a piece of meat then force the lid shut leaving him crammed in the dark claustrophobic box, folded up like a concertina, able to barely move a muscle. His thigh throbbing in time with his head as his tears of pain made tracks through the dust on his face.

If there was one thing he could do, only one thing. It would be to die. He wanted it; ached for it; dreamed about it during the hours he spent in agony in that little box. 'The rest is silence' kept ringing in his ears. Hamlet had it right. Not screaming, not pain… silence. But he never considered it. There was Horatio to think of.

That lawyer was clever. Every time he didn't think it couldn't get worse the little bastard would top himself. Now his only sanctuary was the too few blessed hours in his little miserable cell: his home. After all the shouting and screaming had died down it was as close to silent as it got. He would lie on his bunk and unbeknownst to him dream of happier times filled with Vicodin, scotch and Jewish mammas who wore lab coasts until the giant steaming angry beast of the prison would wake up again and it was time for the nightmare of pain to begin again.

* * *

"Sir Convict 501437, Life Without Parole Sir Boss Sir," he said as he impassively faced the so-called 'independent tribunal', all of whom had been bribed by his mystery nemesis. Another 'infringement' had put him on report and brought House in front of the discipline board again:

He'd been sitting quietly in the mess hall after a fun day's 'walking' out in the punishment yard; and trying his best eat the rancid concoction he'd dubbed rat stew (he hoped he wasn't eating Steve's relatives), when he'd felt a nightstick on his shoulder. He turned around. Just his luck. It was one of the particularly sadistic guards: Fat Boy as House called him. He was a heart attack waiting to happen.

"What did you say convict?" asked the guard.

Ah – this old game. He sighed tiredly to himself. He had played this one before. He wondered which strategy he should use this time. No that it really mattered. Either way he was going to lose. If he answered he'd be breaking the 'no talking in the mess hall' rule – and he lose his dinner and get half an hour of 'nose and toes' outside the guards station. 'Nose and toes' they called it: the CIA Kubark torture manual called it a 'stress position'. He didn't think his leg could take it. It was bad enough on two legs. Try doing it on one.

But if stayed silent he'd be breaking the 'all inmates must stand to attention and answer promptly and respectfully any direct questions asked by any correctional staff' rule and he'd go on report and probably get solitary for a month and once you were down in solitary they could do anything to you.

Stuff it. He would give it one last hurrah and go down fighting. He slowly lifted his bad leg over the bench, stood up and looked at Fat Boy. All eyes in the mess hall were on the two of them. Everyone in the prison knew about the crippled doctor. House slowly pointed to his eyes, the 'no talking' sign on the wall and then mimed zipping his mouth shut. Then gave the guard his most 'you are an idiot' stare.

It took a few seconds for Fat Boy to work it out. He began to turn puce with rage that House had dared to make fun of him. House sensed two more guards coming up behind him.

"You insolent bastard," spat Fat Boy. He put his nightstick under House's chin. "I am gonna ask you one more time. What did you say 'Convict 501437, Life Without Parole'," giving House his new official name as the property of the New Jersey Department of Corrections.

He took a deep breath. "I me… Greg House… said, and let me put this in a way an overweight hick like yourself can understand… nothing." He practically shouted the last word. "Because there is a sign on the wall that says 'no talking' and unlike you… Fat Boy… I can read." He smiled nastily. He felt good. For the first time in along time he felt alive.

But he nearly tripped over his irons as he was immediately hauled backwards by the guards behind him and half frog marched, half carried to the guards' station. They smashed him face first into the wall. Pulling out a pair of handcuffs they lifted his right arm up and chained it to a bolt high up in the wall. He was left helpless: one arm above his head.

Fat Boy came waddling up behind him. He turned to the astonished mess hall and waved his nightstick. "Listen you scum," he said, spit flying. "If any one of you ever even thinks of trying something like that, I'll..." He viciously brought the nightstick across House's buttocks, again and again, as he took out his rage on the defenseless prisoner. House's knees buckled and he cried out as his right arm took his full weight. Eventually Fat Boy stopped leaving the two men both gasping. Fat Boy looked around the room then shouted in House's ear.

"'Nose and toes' convict – Now!"

House knew now was the time to retreat. Ignoring the pain he shakily got his feet under him, feeling sheer relief as the pressure on his wrist was released. He straightened up and lined himself up so only his feet and nose were touching the wall. Fat boy knocked House's feet together with his nightstick. He knew how hard it was for House to maintain this position. "And clever boy," he continued. "You are also on report."

Well, he thought. That wasn't the smartest idea you've ever had Greg. He already had been put on report so many times he had no privileges left, so he guessed a spell of solitary again.

At least it will be a break from all that walking, he thought. But he didn't realise what they had in store for him.

* * *

House had shown no reaction as he had been told by the tribunal he was the worst of the worst, incorrigible, unfit to even be allowed to live amongst his fellow criminals and was sentenced to indefinite isolation. His case to be reviewed after a 'suitable' period. Presumably this meant him dying of old age. The rest of his life in four foot by seven foot tomb.

He'd just accepted it. Taken his licks like a man. His dad had taught him how to do that.

He was docile and quiet as they lead him down to the high security punishment unit. He stood dejectedly between them as they unlocked the door and the barred gate. But as he looked into the dark miserable little pit that was to become his new home a little bit more of him died that day.

They came for him that night.

To teach him a lesson.

A lesson in taking it.

Taking it like a man.

* * *

Dad, please don't do this. I'm not a bad boy. I am doing the right thing. Just for once okay? Just this one time. My life is pretty shitty without you on top of it.

But his dad just stood over him and continued his tirade. The only visitor he has ever had and it had to be his father. He suspected the lawyer may have had something to do with it. He knew emotional pain can be inflicted as easily as physical pain. The lawyer loved reading newspaper clippings of his two trials out to him.

"You have brought nothing but shame and abuse to this family," said his father.

He stared ahead. Still the same old dad.

"I have no son."

Tell me something I don't know. I disowned you years ago.

"Your mother is dead."

Well to be fair He didn't know that. He didn't know much of anything. Contrary to what people think there wasn't cable in solitary. But there are lots of walls to stare at. Or if you get bored with them you could look at the sink - or for a thrill: the toilet.

John House sneered. "They said it was a heart attack, but she probably died of shame."

She would have been proud of me.

It was an open handed smack. The most shameful kind of way to hit a man. It showed exactly what you thought of him. It was a challenge.

Not that he could do anything about it anyway because as always he was shackled and cuffed six ways from Sunday, but his hands still curled into fists behind his back.

Good thing they didn't pick you dad, he thought. I'd have pissed off to Rio and left to your fate. I put up with too much from you. If I was free I'd take you down – old man or not.

House stared blankly ahead. Some pain lasts forever.

* * *

Somewhere, in the dark, a man dreams:

House liked Dream Jimmy. He had always been there for him when there was no one else. And even now he always came, though he could never work how he got down here without being caught.

Even though he would try to curl up in a solitary ball Dream Jimmy would uncurl him, draw him close and hold him just like the big nancy boy he was. Dream Jimmy would keep him warm when they had taken his blanket and he was cold. Dream Jimmy would tell him stories of the hospital when he was lonely. Dream Jimmy would tell him lousy jokes to take his mind off the constant gnawing ache of pain. Dream Jimmy didn't mind if he cried a bit and made Dream Jimmy's shirt wet. Dream Jimmy knew how much it hurt.

Dream Jimmy would hold him as he slept until all was well in the Dream Land of House.

* * *

"No visitors today thanks," mouthed House silently into the corner as the little observation port opened, casting a tiny shaft of dim light into the cell and signaling a new day. Just one day with no one hitting him, screaming at him or spitting on him would be nice. Today he was just plain tired. Too cold. Too tired. Too tired to even be afraid. Hadn't he been punished enough? What could they do to him that hadn't been done before? He couldn't think of much.

His life consisted of nothing but pain. His life would consist of nothing but pain. There was no hope. Pain was the first thing that hit him when he woke up and pain was the last thing he felt before he fell asleep or, more usually, was knocked unconscious.

The constant pain of his leg and the chains; the pain of the beatings; the pain of the loneliness and the boredom; the pain of the cold from the floor and walls of his cell as it seeped slowly and steadily into his body. But most of all there was the pain of the mystery. Of not knowing why someone hated him enough to want to reduce him to a hunk of meat, good for nothing except contempt and suffering.

He couldn't stop them. He couldn't fight back. The man with the limp couldn't run, couldn't escape. If he was going to get hurt he was going to get hurt. You just protected the important bits as much as you could - and took it up the ass: it was just a part of the wonderful life of Greg House.

But all his resolve left him as his cell door opened. He didn't like that door. When it opened it meant more pain. And it had been opened too many times. Adrenalin shot through him. He automatically cringed in anticipation and began to move – one arm covering his eyes and the other groping blindly for the chain to pull himself up to attention. Too long in the dark and his retinas couldn't take the change in light. Down here in the bowels of the prison, reserved for those special people who weren't even good enough to live amongst felons, murderers and crack addicts, all you got was the observation window in the door during the day. During the night you had to imagine flowing meadows and green fields because you couldn't see jack shit.

How long had he been here? Oh God, he suddenly realized he didn't remember. He didn't know which day or even which month it was. All he knew was he wasn't getting out of this cell. He was here for the rest of his life – that's what they'd said. Sitting rotting in a dark corner, chains on his legs, chains on his wrists, even chained to the fucking wall. Nothing but pain.

One cell was supposedly as good as another. Prison life was a never-ending cycle of chains, bars, hard eyed men with big boots and clanging doors. A very angular life he decided. But he really didn't like this cell. It was dark and it was cold. At least before there had been things to see. He never would have thought he would miss the sight of Fat Boy. He wondered if he'd had that heart attack yet.

He remembered a quote about something being long periods of monotony followed by sheer bursts of terror. Was that about war or his life?

Stand up House; stand up now, he thought desperately. Now is not the time to be philosophical you idiot. He tried to rise, but a feeling of light-headedness came over him – oh Christ. How long was it since they had fed him? He fell back down into the corner; despair threatening to choke him. He'd get a beating or the dog box for sure. He curled up instinctively, trying to protect the leg, waiting for the inevitable blows and the screaming to begin.

But nothing happened. After a moment he squinted into the light in confusion then stopped in amazement. It wasn't Boot Boy or any of the other guards. The man standing in his cell had a suit on – with a dog collar.

He laughed silently. A fucking priest. He slumped down into the corner in relief. Go away Padre, he thought to himself. He didn't need saving. He was already in Hell. And hoping God botherers weren't as ready with their fists as guards he turned his face back to the corner of the cell.

But the priest came over to his corner. Eventually House turned to look at the intruder into his space. He saw the man eyeing him warily.

Eventually the man spoke. "Hello, Gregory," he said.

It was something about the way he said it that made House start. He thought he was gutted inside, but fear began to pound through his veins and he shrank back into the corner. He knew who this man was. This was his nemesis. This was 'the client': the other party in the contract. The man responsible for the pitiful state of his life: for turning him into Sir Convict 501437, Life Without Parole Sir Boss Sir: a pathetic excuse for a man - huddled in a corner, cringing at the slightest sound.

Then suddenly all the fear and pain were wiped away as he clicked into diagnostic mode as his curiosity took over.

He wanted to know why.

He had to swallow a few times before he could speak. He was unused to speaking. Not allowed to talk down here. But he'd risk the dog box. He had to talk to this man.

"It's you," he said quietly. "You are not a priest. You are the one who did this to me."

He narrowed his eyes, even after so many months of vegetating his brain working at full speed. He pointed to the surveillance camera in the corner of the cell roof. "Even though you get it all on tape you had to come and see me, didn't you? You had to make a personal appearance. You wanted to see my pain first hand. The video recordings weren't enough."

He took a deep breath in as he remembered all those nights in the factory. The sick bastards had filmed everything. "What, am I - next to Lost season two in your video library? Do you sit there and ask yourself – mmm – do I feel like MASH today or shall I watch Greg House being tortured?"

Thompson smiled and nodded to the camera. "Actually I have you hooked up with a live feed. Sort of like House cable."

"But now you have come for the live show." House continued viciously, his voice harsh. He didn't realise tears had begun trickling down his face. He didn't realise that maybe he hadn't given up on himself after all. Anger was bubbling to the surface.

"Do you have favourite episodes? Remember the one where they strung me up and put the high-pressure hose on me all night in the middle of winter. That one must have been a highlight. Or what about the one where they flogged me? Or the first time they…" he trailed off… unable to say it. "Do you have House marathons? Back to back House episodes.? Do you eat popcorn while you watch?" he spat viciously.

The priest said nothing. He merely slid down the wall and sat next to House. Even though there was nothing threatening in this gesture House felt suddenly very afraid. Actually talking about all those times reminded him of how much power this man had over him. This man owned him.

And now, finally, he was meeting his tormenter face to face and, considering what he had endured before he wondered what would happen now. Was he about to die? Was that the final episode? No spin offs for House.

"So what do you want to know," he said desperately, suddenly gasping for breath as the fear caught up with him. "You took everything from me. You destroyed everything: my work, my support, my life. You hurt me, again and again and again – until I wanted to die. But you wouldn't let me do that. You blackmailed me with the one person you knew I would do anything for to keep safe. Then you made me drive him away - the only person who has ever truly cared a damn about me. Then you killed an innocent woman and sent me here to rot; and presumably die in pain, misery and loneliness," he said as he jangled his chains and gestured around the little cell. He paused for breath:

"Do you feel better now?"

The man thought for a moment.

"Yes."

"Well at least one of us is happy."

The priest closed his eyes as he rested his head against the cell wall. He seemed creepily content, a beatific smile on his face. He didn't say anything more. Eventually House had to break his reverie. He had to know why.

"Would you mind answering one question?" he asked conversationally, knowing this might be his only chance.

"And what's that?" said the priest with his eyes still closed.

"Any particular reason why or were you just bored. Are you sure you have the right guy?" He snorted with bitter laughter. "I really think I would have remembered pissing you off so badly you would do all this and I'd really hate for this all to have been some giant misunderstanding."

This provoked a reaction. The man turned his head to House and bored into him with his gaze. "My name is Robert Thompson and you killed my only daughter. I am exacting God's revenge. An eye for an eye."

He leaned in close to House. "That is why I make you suffer. That is why Ms Cameron had to die."

"Oh crap, not this again," said House almost to himself. "When will people realise death is a natural part of life." House was starting to get angry. "The Bible was wrong. An eye for an eye doesn't make things better." He pointed to his blind eye. "It just means you keep poking until both of you are blind. Then you stumble around a bit and fall into the nearest well."

But Thompson laughed softly. "You think you are a god. Do you feel like a god now Gregory. You are not God. Only God has the power to take life," he hissed. "Your job was to save it. Your job was to save my daughter."

House sighed. He tried to run his hands through his hair before realizing with his prison haircut this was impossible.

"Look you moron. Let me put it in a way you might understand. God created all life on Earth right. They say if you do what God does enough times you become God. Doctors are gods. We play with life and death every day. But we are fallible gods," he said.

"We haven't had as much practice as the big guy up there," he said pointing a thumb to the roof. "We can get it wrong and people die. And remember that God created death too." He looked at the priest, willing him to understand. House couldn't say sorry because he wasn't sorry. He did his best for patients in the only way he knew how. "Sometimes people just die," he said softly.

But Thompson didn't seem to hear him. He just leaned in closer. "You know something Greg; you are right. It should be up to God. He should make you should burn in hell for all eternity." The priest shook his head and House realized this guy was mad as a meat axe.

"But I just couldn't be sure," Thompson continued. "I am weak. There was a tiny part of me that wasn't sure of my faith. So I decided to create your own personal hell while you were still alive. Did I do a good job?"

House gave up and smiled sadly at him. "A very good job."

Thompson leaned back against the cell wall. "Maybe that makes me God."

* * *

Later

Freedom. Not something for him. But he still thought about it sometimes. He stretched out his arms as far as they would go and waggled them around. A simple pleasure, but one long denied. He only got out of the cuffs one hour a week. It felt good. Not much felt good any more.

He ignored his wrists. Never good to dwell on the bad stuff. Just make sure you keep surviving Greg. Just stay alive. That's the most important thing.

He began to trot around the little exercise cage in a circle: hop stepping slowly. Even with the chains on his ankles he was enjoying the space around him after so long being confined in his claustrophobic little cell.

He was concentrating on not tripping over his own feet when Boot Boy (so named because of House's familiarity with Boot Boy's boots) yelled at him.

"Hey 501."

He looked up. That was his name now.

"Merry Christmas fuckwit."

The guard laughed at his look of bewilderment.

"It's Christmas Day you piece of shit."

He stopped walking. Now that was unfair. How was he supposed to know it was Christmas? Everywhere he looked it was grey. Grey walls, grey floors, grey bars, grey everything. Not a piece of tinsel in sight.

He stared at the floor as Boot Boy called him a fuckstick and a faggot and promised he'd be getting his Christmas present good and hard this year. Oh thanks there Boot Boy: something to look forward to.

He didn't say a word. He couldn't. He wasn't allowed and Boot Boy had a particular fondness for stomping on his hands and hands came in handy. He just waited until the guard got tired of tormenting him and resumed his walking: his stupid walking in a little circle in a fucking cage walking.

It was all he could do.

Merry Christmas Wilson. I hope you like your present.

Another year over: a new one just begun.

He wondered which one it was.

He hoped it was a good one.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 6

Later

"Oh my God," whispered Cuddy, her eyes wide, her hand over her mouth. Wilson was just staring into space. Both were in complete shock.

Millionaire business man Robert Thompson was dead. Shot dead in a car park. No one mourned his death. He was found over twenty four hours later, face down in the dusty ash felt. The police suspected organized crime. They had been monitoring his activities for some time. They told no one, but obtained a warrant and sent in a team to search his house to confirm their suspicions before his contacts were alerted.

It had been a junior agent who had stumbled across them. She had been assigned the dreary job of checking through his movie room, while all the more senior agents were rifling through Thompson's office. She was listlessly going through the DVDs when she noticed an entire shelf of movies entitles Greg House. Puzzled, she stopped. She vaguely remembered a case a few years back about a Doctor sentenced for murder called House. Why would Thompson have DVDs labeled House? Intrigued she selected one at random and put it into the player. They found her hours later, still staring at the television, tears running down her face; in her hands was the contract.

The enormity of what House had done begun to sink in. Wilson looked at the contract in disbelief. It was signed in blood. He could smell it. His eye was caught by his own name: James Wilson, then, further down, he saw Cuddy's name and the word 'terminate'.

That was what he had been hiding, protecting, all this time: their lives.

"D… does he know," stammered Wilson. Then realizing how stupid he sounded he tried to clarify. "I mean about Thompson's death?"

The detective nodded slowly. We brought him up here yesterday. We thought he wouldn't be safe in the jail.

"Why not?" asked Wilson.

* * *

"Have we been through all the records of the people Thompson paid off?" Jones asked as she walked into her boss's office.

"Jesus no – have you seen how many there are?"

"Then we need to go through them right now. I think we have a bigger problem. He just asked me the date," she said.

"So?" replied the older man impatiently.

"He asked me what year it was."

She continued. "He didn't even know who the President is."

Caffrey's eyes widened in realization. "Do you mean that if Thompson set up all that other bullshit and the murder…" he trailed off in shock. "What did he arrange for him in prison?"

* * *

"Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka."

House started at the chanting coming from the corridor. He drew the blanket tighter around himself and tried to burrow further into the corner. Oh please; not him; not tonight, he thought as his fear kept time with the chanting. He really really didn't want to be 'extracted' this evening. He pulled the blanket over his head and gave himself a few more precious moments of dark quiet time as he breathed in the hot heavy 'under the blanket' air.

"Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka. Boom shakalaka."

* * *

In his office Thompson watched the television, poured himself another brandy and laughed.

* * *

"Do you mean he's here… now? Can I see him?" asked Wilson.

"Tomorrow. He's up in the hospital now, but I think you should. He doesn't seem to believe it is true that Thompson's dead and he doesn't trust us much," said the detective.

* * *

Wilson sat nervously at the table, staring at the empty bolted down chair on the other side of the cold filthy depressing interview room. God this place was horrid. Was this what House had endured the last few years.

The first thing he noticed was the limp. House could barely walk. He nearly twisted sideways with each step as he leaned on his cane… cane? It looked like a couple of bits of plastic PVC piping stuck together. And to his dismay he saw it was attached to House's wrist with a handcuff and a chain.

House looked up when he entered the room and faltered. Wilson noticed a fading black eye before he quickly lowered his gaze, keeping his head down as the officers helped him to his seat and bolted his leg irons to the floor. It sickened Wilson to see House like this. But of course he was Gregory House: for the moment - the dangerous cripple convicted of a murder so savage that he had to be caged and chained like an animal.

They sat there. Not looking at each other. Not saying anything. Wilson didn't even begin to know how to talk about this. Eventually he decided to stick to the tied and true. He broke the silence in the usual way.

"I like the new cane. Very stylish."

House eyed the pathetic plastic pipe chained to his wrist. "Yeah," he said softly. Both men remembering that day in the office when Wilson had broken House's cane and wishing they hadn't.

Wilson motioned to the bruise. "Who'd you piss off?"

House looked startled for a moment as if unsure what Wilson was referring to, until realization dawned. "Oh this… This is a must have prison accessory," he said slowly, as if unused to forming sentences. His voice was raspy and dry.

He gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes. "The doors I have to walk into to stay fashionable," he trailed off, aware at the feebleness of the attempted joke. Wilson watched House shift uncomfortably and noticed the pain behind his words.

Wilson had seen the hospital report of the scan they had just done on him. He had seen some of the videos too, but he would never tell House that. House was a proud man. After seeing the things he had gone through Wilson knew he would never want anyone to see him like that.

So many broken bones. So many bruises on him even now – old and new. Some of his fingers had been broken three times each. Partially blind in one eye. The burns… and there were even scars from a whip across his back. All those so-called 'falls' were now explained. All those sick days. He felt sick himself. What had House been going through – alone, unable to ask anyone to help him? It was only a stupid random act of fate that had saved him from having to endure this for the rest of his life. How ironically like life.

It explained so much. When House had gone to prison Wilson had received a letter saying everything in House's apartment was his – including Steve. Although not wanting to he had gone over to the apartment. It was still a shambles, abandoned. He had walked through the dark cool rooms, trying to imagine House's life. Everything – the TV, kitchen, and the bed – was a forgotten mess.

Only the piano was clear. And slap bang in the middle of the shiny black surface of the piano was Wilson's key. He knew it was his because House had scratched a W into it with Julie's best kitchen knife and broken the tip off it. Fueled by beer they'd laughed at the time, but he'd got yelled at by Julie. Greg House was a bad influence, she'd said. He was a troublemaker and uncaring selfish bastard. How wrong had she been, he thought now?

He had picked up the key and looked at it thoughtfully, turning it round in his hands.

In the bathroom he had found enough medical supplies for a MASH unit. He had been bewildered then, but now he understood.

* * *

The silence fell again, broken only by the soft tinkling of House's leg irons as he shifted his bad leg. It stretched on. Wilson stared at his hands. He noticed they were shaking slightly.

He was surprised when House was the first to speak.

"Jimmy," he said softly.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

At this Wilson looked up sharply and was about to reply. This was the last thing he had expected. And there was that 'Jimmy' again. But then he noticed House's hands were shaking too and he stopped. Little Jimmy Wilson, the boy wonder oncologist, had always noticed things about House.

House could tell everything about everyone just by looking at them, but Wilson was the only one who could do it back to House. To him House was a walking talking open book. House had only to limp into his office and Wilson could tell everything from how much pain he was in and how bad a case was going to what new mischief House had inflicted on Cuddy.

Wilson was also the only one who could give it back to House in other ways. Everyone always looked at him as the gormlessly cute and caring cancer doctor, but House was the only person Wilson trusted enough to let know that underneath he was a cynical son of a bitch. Wilson was the only one who could make House laugh.

But now Wilson just looked at him, his mouth agape in disbelief. After everything House had suffered, he didn't give a damn about himself and the first thing that came out of his mouth was an apology for him.

Wilson knew exactly why House was sorry. He was sorry for having to push Wilson away, he was sorry for not telling him, he was sorry he had caused all this, he was sorry Wilson had suffered for being a friend of Greg House.

The rest of the world might know of Doctor Gregory House as a nasty vicious selfish son a bitch. But in a tit for tat arrangement only little Jimmy Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, had been trusted to know the truth about House.

Which is why he always forgave his strange grumpy scratchy friend.

Wilson smiled. "You're an ass."

At this House looked up at him quizzically for a few moments, his rumpled face creasing with confusion then relief. "Yeah," he said tiredly, but he smiled thinly back.

But inwardly House was barely holding on. Daring to breathe again after so long holding his breath. Wilson was killing him. Looking at him with his clichéd big puppy dog eyes. House could have just fallen into them and drowned. But time and time again it had been beaten into him that there was no hope. No happy ending in this situation. You just had to keep coping with the pain and the cold and the loneliness, not to struggle when they held you down, to thank them after they hurt you even though you wanted to kill them. You just coped… just. And it was hard to think differently.

They'd said Thompson had been shot, but he was still suspicious. Even dead Thompson probably held every card in the pack and he didn't even know which game they were playing. Was this just another move in Thompson's game? From the first minute this game had begun he had been a pawn. Helpless and unable to do anything else but be pushed around by the chess master. He was sure there was a hat trick or a full house just out there waiting for him.

Oh fuck. He was mixing his metaphors. He was just so afraid. So afraid for Wilson. He couldn't stand another Cameron. And not Wilson… he do anything. Visit Thompson in Hell and dance the Charleston, but not Wilson. Pushing Wilson away had been the worst pain of all. All that time living with the knowledge that Wilson despised him.

It had been manageable before. At first he'd used anger and stubbornness, but after a while he just shut down and went numb.

But now Wilson was sitting in front of him: big, dumb, comforting and safe. A reminder of all the things he hadn't allowed himself to miss in prison. House wanted to reach out and touch him, to reassure himself that he hadn't descended into madness. That he wasn't still back in his little miserable cell dreaming in the dark. That everything had been, and would be – worth it.

Wilson saw House begin to shake. He saw everything. He saw House about to snap. He came around the table and giving the officers his 'its ok, I'm a doctor' look, knelt down and took House by the arms.

"It's ok House," he said earnestly as he looked into the older man's eyes. "You did good. Everyone is safe now."

He could see that House desperately wanted to believe him. House looked at him with big trusting little boy eyes that said 'please mommy, tell me the monsters aren't real.'

Wilson smiled reassuringly. "They caught everyone House. There is no one left to hurt anyone."

At this House slowly lowered his head to Wilson's chest and Wilson reached round and hugged House close to him. My God, thought Wilson, there is nothing to him but skin and bone. He could feel House's backbone and ribs through the thin material of his uniform. He imagined him shivering, alone through long winter nights.

But Wilson didn't know about Dream Jimmy.

But at this, the first real tender human touch in so long, House melted against Wilson and let Wilson's warm strong presence comfort him. Wilson heard House's handcuffs rattle as he reached out as far as the chains would let him and grabbed a handful of Wilson's shirt near his belly, pulling it out of his waistband.

"You did good," Wilson repeated. "But you are still an ass."

"Yeah," agreed House. He twisted the fabric between his fingers. No one could see it, which was the way he liked it, but this time there was something approaching a real smile on his lips. This Jimmy was real.

Many people forgot that Gregory House could actually smile. But not his friend James Wilson - because he was the only one who made it happen.

* * *

Wilson sighed and looked at his watch. Cuddy was due in a few minutes and they were running late. He caught House as he aimlessly wandered past, shoved him onto the bed and began to vigorously towel House's wet hair.

The doorbell rang. "Get dressed properly," he said sternly as he gave a final flourish.

Cuddy smiled when Wilson answered the door.

James smiled back. "Hi Cuddy. We are running a little behind. You know what House is like. Never on time."

Cuddy smiled thinly. Wilson was always so polite. Pretending everything was OK. But everyone had seen – graphically – what had happened that day.

She never wanted to see something like that happen to someone she cared about again. The day of his official pardon, finally free of its burden, the mind of Gregory House had broken.

* * *

Chapter 7

Wilson brought Cuddy a drink and they sat on the sofa. The three of them were going out tonight – and it was going to be strained. But Wilson had assured her that although House could still only use a spoon, he had stopped licking the plate. And they had to do it because Wilson wanted as much normalcy as possible.

House wandered out, making a beeline for the kitchen. Cuddy could think the only word that described him since the second trial was 'deranged'. Actually that was a pretty good word to describe him before. But now he really looked deranged. His clothing was hanging off him in what House would have called 'concentration camp chic' and his hair was sticking up left right and centre. His walk was off, not so much for the limp, but because he didn't realise there were no leg irons any more and still compensated after wearing them for so long. That made her furious. How could a supposedly humane society possibly justify putting a cripple in leg irons?

And of course, he wasn't all there.

But Wilson didn't see a strange limping scarecrow, he only saw his friend.

"Hey," he said softly. House got jumpy if you got too loud around him. Silence meant safety. Noise meant pain. And now, finally, after taking everything so bravely the fear was bubbling to the surface.

A couple of times Wilson had got frustrated; lost his temper and House had bolted. The first time was okay, as he couldn't get away in the apartment because Wilson kept the door locked. But the second time had been in a shopping centre.

It always amazed Wilson, but House was remarkably fast when he wanted to be. Trying to explain you are trying to track down a big limping scared crippled guy who wasn't firing on all cylinders to some security rent-a-cop at the mall was not an easy task.

They'd finally found him five hours later, hiding behind a dumpster on the fifth floor of the parking lot. The look on House's face when he had seen Wilson was one of sheer relief. House had practically crash tackled him in an attempt to get hold of him – touching him and pulling at his clothing in an attempt to reassure himself that Wilson was real.

It hurt Wilson to think the atmosphere of safety he had tried to create was so fleeting that House could have thought it was an illusion. It was hard, but then being friends with Greg House had never been easy. He just wasn't a trusting bastard.

"Where are you going mister?" he said as he intercepted House with a gentle hand on his chest.

House stopped and they waited. Eventually he looked up and frowned, but allowed himself to be guided to the couch.

"I'll get you a beer later. Sit down and talk to Cuddy," he said as he knelt down and began to carefully do up House's half done, half forgotten shirt buttons as he prattled on about the various merits of restaurants and House's lack of ability to do up buttons properly, making it sound like a joke rather than the truth – House's fingers were so crooked from badly healed broken fingers that his once beautiful hands now bordered on the grotesque.

* * *

"Hold them out."

He frantically shook his head.

"Hold them out," Boot Boy ordered again, this time more forcefully.

"Sir please no Sir Boss Sir," he whispered pathetically from his prone position on the floor.

"Are you refusing an order from an officer? That's a very serious offence 501. Do you want me to tell your lawyer friend that you have been a bad boy?" The officer kneeling on his back leaned a little more heavily on him to emphasise the seriousness of this point.

He shook his head. "Sir no Boss Sir," he gasped as his air was cut off.

"Then do it."

He shuddered, slowly put his trembling hands on the floor in front of him and closed his eyes.

* * *

"Don't make any rude remarks," Wilson admonished into House's ear as he stood up and made for the bedroom.

But House didn't speak. House never spoke. Not since the day he had been officially been declared innocent. He functioned – to a point and did what he was told, but he just wasn't there.

The psych doctors had said it was a rare form of semi-catatonia. They had wanted to institutionalize him, but Wilson had said no. He'd come in to visit and found House tied to the bed. He'd sat there, watching for an hour as House gently tugged at the restraint on his left arm, then started on the right. How many hours had he spent tugging on chains with no hope they would ever release their grip? The scars on his wrists said hundreds… maybe thousands.

Eventually House had given up, defeated, and sank back into the bed with a whimper of acceptance. How many times had he done that – just accepted what was happening to him?

Watching House that day Wilson had made his decision. House would live with him. He was alone after divorce number three and Wilson knew he could make him better. He had to make him better. He wanted his friend back.

Cuddy sat silently for a minute watching House stare at the floor, until Wilson returned with a hairbrush.

With an ease obviously born of practice Wilson completely ignored the uncomfortable silence, grabbed a handful of House's hair and yanked his head back.

"So where are we going tonight," he asked absently as he roughly brushed the short brown hair into a slightly more manageable tangle. After a few strokes he threw the brush on the table, grabbed House's jacket from the stand and began putting him in it. Pushing and pulling arms and adjusting collars until House was suitably dressed for a night out.

But not hearing a reply he turned to find Cuddy with her hands in her face. Trying not to cry. This sickened her. More than the infarction, more than anything. This was wrong.

Gregory House looked like a real boy. He was dressed exactly as he had been. Wilson had even gone out and bought every cool T-shirt he could find. House's un-ironed shirts were Armani, his jeans were JAG and his shoes were Nike. But Wilson was the one who tied his shoelaces.

The fire in the eyes was gone. Everything inside him that made House House was gone. She cursed the day she had dropped the key in his lap. She was sorry. She hadn't known, she thought desperately.

It was only Wilson who treated House exactly the same. All the time while he was taking care of House: making sure House ate, dressing him in the clothes he knew House would like, making sure his hair was brushed… he bitched at House, bitched about House to his face, and bought videos and popcorn for Friday nights.

Because little Jimmy Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, believed in hope. He was waiting for the day when House would just turn to him and insult him right back. He didn't know if it was possible, but Wilson wanted House back. He fell back on his old tried and trusted principle. Maybe if he gave it some time he would get his friend back.

* * *

Chapter 8

Wilson had taken a few weeks off to get House settled, but then he realized he had the problem of work. House needed an eye kept on him at all times and Wilson couldn't keep him in his office – he'd frighten the cancer patients (not like he hadn't before).

So he had gone to Cuddy and explained he needed to put House somewhere nearby while he worked. She had agreed and Wilson had arranged for a private nurse to look after House. But the only place they could stick him was in the hospital's childcare centre.

It was funny to come in after work and see House sitting on the floor of what Cuddy termed his designated 'House area' – a spare room off from the main playroom – staring intently at a kid's picture book, with Clarence dozing on a nearby couch – keeping an eye on him.

Clarence was a godsend. House had taken to him from the get go.

"House, this is Clarence. He is going to be looking after you," said Wilson as he brought the two men together. "Like a body guard," he added hopefully.

House had just poked Clarence in the stomach and wandered off.

"What does that mean?" asked a bewildered Clarence.

Wilson took a breath. "I think… that means he likes you."

Clarence was a big gentle man who was more than capable of squishing House in an instant if he wanted to. He was nearly seven feet tall and had a remarkable resemblance to Mike Tyson. But if House got upset or anxious Clarence could calm him down without even touching him and then keep him calm until Wilson got there to take charge.

* * *

House hated to be held or grabbed. Wilson was the only one he was happy to let push and pull him around.

He had obviously been held down too many times by too many people. Wilson realized that being held down, unable to move, to House, meant pain. Wilson knew that House remembered pain.

House had never been the type of guy to talk about his emotions, and now even more so. But even thought his conscious mind had taken a vacation House's subconscious was still struggling the memories. Night after night House's soft cautious cries would wake him.

He became so attuned to House's soft muffled whimpers that even the slightest hiccupy sob would wake him. He would follow the source of the noise and slip carefully into House's bed, careful not to wake him from his nightmare.

Then, just had he had done all those years ago during the Frasier marathon, House would instinctively reach out to Wilson, one hand finding a convenient bit of shirt to twist in its grasp. Eventually the sobs would die down, to be replaced with the gentle rumbling as House slept, holding onto Wilson like a giant human teddy bear.

* * *

But it was Clarence who had discovered the secret to keeping House happy during the day – distractions. They bought him copies of every trashy celebrity magazine they could find and Clarence would stick them under his nose. They didn't know how much was going in, but the bright pictures of Tom Cruise doing the shopping or Angelina Jolie on the set of her latest film seemed to intrigue House.

One day Wilson found House with a lollipop. As he entered the room he stopped short and unconsciously held his breath as he took in the scene before him. He was taken back in time. House was lounging on a chair, a forgotten People on his lap, gazing out the window and sucking contentedly on a bright red lollipop. For a second Wilson almost believed House would turn to him and say something cutting or rude. But House just continued to stare intently out the window.

"Where did he get that Clarence," he asked.

He must have said it a bit too forcefully because Clarence looked a little nervous. "I bought it for him Doctor Wilson," he said. "That is OK right. The red food dye isn't going to make him hyper or something?"

"No, that's fine Clarence. He used to love those… before," said Wilson sadly as he stared at his friend. He was so involved he nearly missed Clarence's next words.

"…just staring at it like he really really wanted it."

Wilson turned abruptly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asked.

"I was just saying it was funny. He saw this kid with one of those free lollipops they give out in the clinic and he just couldn't take his eyes off it. I thought he was going to try to swipe it," said Clarence.

Wilson looked thoughtfully at House. "Anything wrong Doctor Wilson?" asked Clarence. Wilson realized he had been staring into space. He shook his head. The idea that even while completely insane his friend would still want to steal lollipops from small children made Wilson suspect he was still in there somewhere, hiding and wondering when it would be safe to come out.

* * *

"This is Clarence – House's nurse," said Wilson.

John House gaped at the biggest Black man he has ever seen apart from the odd line backer.

That thing is a nurse, he thought?

But it was what was behind Clarence that was important. Trailing along in the black man's wake was his son.

"Clarence this is House's dad John House," said Wilson gesturing.

Clarence smiled, but Greg didn't appear.

Wilson looked uncomfortable. "I think he may be feeling a little shy," he said eventually breaking the silence. "New people and all."

Greg was somewhere behind Clarence, although with the size of him it was difficult to tell.

He moved forward, but Wilson put a hand on his chest.

"Mr House, he's had a rough time. Just give him some space."

From what he's heard Greg just got beaten up a few times. No reason to go all nuts. Some men suffered much worse during the Nam War and they are okay: look at McCain. But Wilson was in charge.

John just gave a slow nod and sat down on the couch. After what sounded like some stern lecturing from Wilson the two men brought Greg round and he sat between them on the opposite couch.

Greg gave him a quick suspicious stare then gazed vacantly at the floor, paying him no attention. He looked hard at his son. He noticed all the things he didn't see last time because his mind was clouded with anger: the scars, how thin he was – and now there was the horrible blankness in his eyes.

As they talked Greg put one of his hands out and tugged on Wilson's sleeve. Wilson paid no attention to this and continued talking to him: saying things like House is getting better all the time and how he likes watching some new show. He was not really listening. He was staring at his son's hand. It was mangled. It looked like it has been crushed. He didn't see Greg's hands last time because they were behind his back. He didn't see much past the striped uniform last time, he admitted to himself.

He was angry. Greg used to be such a good piano player. He might not have been the world's greatest dad, but he had always loved his son.

They had taken him – mind and body. No matter what Wilson said his son was now both crippled and retarded.

Greg was still tugging at Wilson's cuff and began to try to undo the button. He was really intent on it. He pulled Wilson's arm into his lap and studied it thoughtfully: in exactly the same way he used to look at things that puzzled him when he was a little boy.

"What's he doing?" he asked.

Wilson seemed to notice for the first time that his arm has been hijacked. "Oh this: he's just exploring."

* * *

"Wanna go for a walk?"

Greg just pulled on Wilson's collar.

"No, not to a strip joint: the park."

There was another tug.

"Yes the one you like." Wilson looked up at Clarence. "Get his jumper Clarence."

"'kay," said Clarence as he came round with a very ugly hand knitted sweater.

Wilson smiled at him. "My mother knitted it," he said apologetically as he pulled the sweater over his son's head and began struggling with the sweater and Greg's arms.

"Beautiful," said Wilson as he sat back with as gasp while he surveyed Greg – who looked as if he had been attacked by a demented multi coloured sheep – with satisfaction. "Get him ready Clarence."

He watched as Clarence shrugged on a back pack and pulled down what looks like a harness that was sitting next to the front door and fitted it to his son.

"What's that?"

"Oh that's just because Doctor House can be quite fast when it takes his mind so we need to make sure he is safe," Clarence answered as he buckled it up at the back. "I just attach it to my belt and he can wander along fine."

He gave Greg a little affectionate poke in the shoulder. "You are a trouble maker aren't you?"

He always was thought John.

Greg frowned, poked him back and Clarence laughed. "Come on big boy. Time for a limp in the park." He effortlessly lifted Greg onto his feet, putting the cane into his hand and carefully wrapping his fingers around it. "He's still getting used to the cane again. They did bad things to his hands," he said apologetically. "They don't grip too well now."

John watched as his son jerkily pushed ahead. The string was one of those stretchy ones like little old ladies use for their poodles. It hurt to see his son on the end of a leash, but the other two men don't seem bothered by it.

It was a beautiful day but Greg didn't look around. He just forged forward, head down, like he was on his own little mission.

Then his grip on the cane slipped and he fell on the concrete. John started to help him, but Wilson and Clarence held him back.

"It's his journey," said Clarence.

Greg slowly got up and then looked at his hand. It was bleeding from a small scrape. He stared at it for a second.

Then he walked over to Wilson, but he didn't touch him. He just stood next to him. Very close, but not touching.

Wilson seemed to know what this meant. "Got the first aid kit Clarence?"

Clarence rummaged through the small back pack he has been carrying and handed over a little first aid kit.

"Hold it out," said Wilson in a bored voice, looking away.

Greg held out his hand.

Wilson wiped the cut with antiseptic then stuck a plaster over the cut. "Big baby," he whispered. Greg gently touched him, tugging on his shirt. "I know," said Wilson softly. "I know."

He doesn't understand the bond these two have. He wished Blythe were here. She would have known.

"What's the matter?" asked Clarence as they watched the little scene.

He shrugged. "His mother: she used to do that for him when he was very little."

Wilson smiled at him. "I must be the furtherist thing from his mother ever invented, but no matter how old we are we all need someone to tend to our wounds."

But Greg is now looking at Wilson with irritation. "Yes it is coming. Hold your horses."

He handed Clarence the first aid kit and Clarence gave him a little bag in return. Greg fidgeted as Wilson rifled in the bag.

John frowned as Greg grabbed the green thing Wilson was holding and shoved it in his mouth.

"What is that?"

"A Green frog. Possibly one of the most disgusting items of confectionary ever to be invented. House – of course – loves them."

Wilson offered one to John. It was bright green and looked disgusting.

Greg looked hopeful.

"No you can't have another one," said Wilson.

John House looked at Greg, resplendent in his ugly hand knitted jumper. You don't know how lucky you are son.

* * *

Doctor Simpson tried not to snigger as he watched his patient. The doctor and Wilson were on the couch. House was sitting on the floor of the psychiatrist's office, happy and safe in between Wilson's legs.

Simpson could tell House felt happy because he was completely ignoring the array of distracting goodies Clarence had laid out in front of him and was valiantly attempting to undo Wilson's right shoe lace with his clumsy fingers, an evil smile plastered across his face.

Oblivious, Wilson sat back into the couch's deep cushions. Simpson sighed. Wilson was taking this hard, and considering the man was an oncologist, that said something. Love makes people crazy.

Wilson ran a tired hand over his face. "I don't know what it means Doctor Simpson. He's become very clingy since it happened. But maybe it is a good thing. He seems more there. Maybe it means…" he trailed off. "But he was pretty traumatized at the time."

Simpson watched as Wilson sat up and unconsciously fumbled with House's collar, tidying it up. Simpson had noticed that sometime in the last month Doctor Wilson had finally snapped and that House's shirts were now beautifully ironed. House paid no attention to this fussing and reached out to grab the lollipop Clarence was waving in front of him. "Tell me what happened?" he asked.

* * *

"I don't think this is a good idea," he said. House was scared. It wasn't surprising. He didn't like this building. He didn't like big open spaces and he really didn't like people in uniform. And he'd known something was up. He'd been a pest all morning. Fidgeting when Wilson was putting on his tie and continually tugging on it until the knot nearly strangled him and Wilson had to pull the car over and loosen it.

Now he was hiding behind Wilson, his head resting on Wilson's back while he nervously fingered the back of Wilson's jacket.

"It will only be for a few minutes Doctor Wilson," replied the prosecutor. "We need to show him to make the case."

'Show him'. Bad choice of words. Wilson sighed. But he knew it was necessary. For the lawyer and his thugs it had been easy. They had the tapes, but for the prison guards they only had Thompson's records and House.

"Okay," he relented. "Come on House," he said as he put his hand behind him and lead House into the courtroom.

They were sitting in the front row, waiting for the session to begin, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A guard was standing there. "Excuse me… Doctor Wilson. There is an urgent call for you at the front desk. About a patient."

Damn, that meant Terry was dying. Wilson looked around. He tapped one of the prosecutor's assistants on the shoulder. "Can you sit with him," he said shrugging at House. "I have to take a call."

A few minutes later he was on the phone to his assistant when a voice startled him.

"Doctor Wilson." He looked up from his phone into the scared face of the guard. "There is a problem with your friend."

"Oh God."

He dropped the phone and bolted into the courtroom. It was in chaos. Guns were drawn and people were screaming. Half the courtroom was running for the exits, while the other half were gathered behind the judge's bench.

He pushed his way through the crowd to the source of the disturbance until he was grabbed by a guard. He angrily shrugged out of the guard's grip with a hissed "I'm his doctor" and turned to mob.

"He's scared. He's terrified," he growled. He tried to gather some semblance of control. "Please just back off and be quiet. He can't hurt you. He can't hurt anyone."

No one moved until the judge waved the security guards away. "I'm fine." They reluctantly stepped back and holstered their guns. "And get that bastard out of here," he said as he motioned to the defendant.

The two men slowly approached House. He had burrowed himself in a corner, curled up, curiously with his hands buried under his armpits. He looked like he was hugging himself. He was shaking violently and sweat was pouring down his face. He was not looking at any of them, but staring into the middle distance, panting as he relived past terrors.

"What happened?" he asked the judge.

"He was fine until the defendant came out, then he freaked out. Bolted every which way, but Sunday. For a man with a cane, he sure lead everyone a merry dance," said the judge. "Then he just seemed to trip over his own feet and curled up."

"Well, we got our show all right," said the prosecutor from behind him.

At this Wilson rounded on him. He was furious, blood boiling in his veins. House was not a fucking wind up toy or a fucking exhibit. He was a human being who had gone through nearly fours years of physical and psychological hell. Wilson realized what House had done. He'd tried to run and tripped over his own imaginary chains. How many times had that guard pushed him around until he tripped on the real ones and fell, unable to get up, unable to do anything but curl up and wait for the kicking to begin.

"Show? I'll give you a show," he yelled angrily as he punched him on the jaw. The man dropped like a stone. The boy wonder oncologist had no idea he was such a good boxer. Then the guards were on him and he struggled until the voice of the judge stopped him, cutting through his rage.

"Doctor Wilson, don't you think you should attend to your friend."

He calmed down and they let him go. He wiped the back of his hand across his face. He nodded. "I am sorry. You are right."

He crossed to House and slid down the wall beside him, sweaty and shaking. "Hey," he said softly and prepared to wait till House started to reach out. He'd discovered, through many years, that was the best approach.

* * *

"What was the aftermath?" asked Simpson.

Wilson smiled ruefully. "It took half an hour for House to calm down and the prosecutor and I both agreed not to sue."

"And the prison guard?"

"He was convicted on all counts," he said as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on House's shoulders. "House sure did a number on the jury."

He continued on. "I don't know exactly what the bastard did to him and House can't tell us, but judging by his reaction it was bad." He gently tugged on one of House's ears. "He was so afraid," he said softly.

But Simpson noticed that House, after successfully managing to pull out Wilson's entire right lace, was now randomly pushing buttons on the computer game between his legs, his eyes lighting up each time the little machine made a garish noise.

Although Wilson was worried, House was nothing like the wide-eyed shaking skeleton he had been six months ago. If House was all there Simpson was sure he would have said Wilson was just being a worrywart Jewish momma.

They stood to leave and Simpson stifled a laugh as Wilson noticed his shoe. The shoelace was neatly tied around his ankle.

"House," came the anguished cry. "Oh for Lord's sake. Come on – up you."

Wilson lifted House up by the collar and dumped him on the couch before joining him, pulling off his shoe and rethreading his lace.

He looked up at the doctor. "Ever wondered what it would be like looking after a 45 year old toddler?" he said in exasperation, waggling the shoe under House's nose: "woooo, " he growled. "Bad. Don't play with my shoes."

He stopped. "Not that he was particularly grown up before," he said with a slight laugh as he remembered. "Just more talkative."

Simpson slapped him on the back and looked at House who had paid no attention to Wilson's scolding and was now concentrating solely on his latest lollipop, but managing to look a bit smug at the same time. "I think," he said thoughtfully. "You are doing a good job Doctor Wilson. Although you might want to take him to a dentist sometime soon if you keep feeding him so many lollipops."

* * *

After Wilson had relaced and retied his shoe he took House by the hand and with Clarence in tow they walked into the elevator.

He was pressing the button for the second floor when he heard the man behind him mutter: "Bloody homos."

He didn't turn around.

"I said, bloody homos." Wilson felt a slight push on his back and felt House's hand tighten its grip in a silent plea. House was doing nothing, just looking down at the floor, but his body suddenly became a mass of tension, his shoulders rounding as if in expectation of a blow. House recognized that tone. It was the same tone that the people who hit him used. The same anger. To House that tone meant pain. Wilson could see him physically and mentally curling up. Fuck this, thought Wilson as he turned to the man.

But another voice suddenly cut in. "You gotta problem with that?" Clarence was looming over the man, suddenly looking not very nursey, but slightly psychotic. Clarence was normally so gentle and protective around House that Wilson forgot he was also 'a serious homie'.

Clarence took a step closer to the man who backed up against the wall. "Cos I'm gay and I don't have a problem with that?"

"No… no problem," squeaked the man.

"Good," he menaced. "So you just leave my doctor friends alone – got it."

The man gulped. "Got it."

Clarence smiled evilly. "Good."

Wilson looked over at House who was now watching the scene intently, almost looking impressed. "See, I told you he was your body guard," he whispered.

There is nothing to be afraid of now House, he thought. But he knew for House that was going to take a long time to come to terms with. Rationally Wilson knew House was getting better, but it seemed such a difficult process. One step forward and five steps back.

Last week Wilson had come into the kitchen to find a broken coffee cup. While cleaning it up he became aware of a strange harsh breathing sound. He'd found House, on his knees behind the couch with his shirt off, his scarred back curled over, hands wrapped around his head as if waiting for a beating.

He sat down beside him. He knew the warden had been delighted for the chance to make use of his genuine antique prison strap. How many times had House knelt down in the Warden's office, carefully wrapped his hands around his head and waited?

"House, did you break the coffee cup?" he asked gently.

House put the heels of his hands over his eyes. His breath was coming now coming in ragged pants. Wilson could see the bumps of each vertebra as they ran down his spine. Even now he was still far too thin.

"It's okay you know."

But House didn't respond. He just continued his terrified panting.

Oh House, thought Wilson sadly. You don't realize it's over do you?

They both jumped at a loud voice. "What the hell has been going on in my kitchen?"

Clarence rounded on them. Took in the scene and began to lecture House.

"Why are you half naked man? Didn't I dress you this morning?"

Wilson sat back, grateful to Clarence for taking over. He began to cry softly. He was so tired.

Clarence gently pulled House to his feet and wrestled his shirt over his head. All the while Clarence kept up a steady stream of chatter. "I don't know. I leave you alone for a moment and you are off trying to streak naked through the park. If you think that is going to impress the ladies you have another thing coming my friend."

"And it is time for your nap man, so don't give me any shit and you go and give Doctor Wilson a hug – he's a big cry baby: he needs it - no buts about it - and then you go lie down," finished Clarence. "Or I will read fairy stories to you instead of medical journal articles this evening and you will pout… don't look at me with that blank stare. I know you can pout with the best of them."

Wilson wiped his eyes and got to his feet. House was fucked. There was no point reading him medical journals or even fairy stories for that matter. He was never going to escape the horror that encased him. He was lost.

Then House gave him an awkward little hug.

He didn't even realize it had happened. House was already being lead to the bedroom before he realized it had happened.

House had hugged him.

He was just left standing in the middle of the living room, behind the couch, gawping.

Clarence shot him a look as he left and winked.

* * *

They walked out of the elevator and into the corridor. Cuddy was there. "Morning Doctor Wilson." She smiled at him and motioned to House. "He hasn't changed has he?"

Wilson turned pink. He gave an embarrassed smile. He put out his hand out without looking and pushed House's chin up. "Bad House," he said. "Don't stare at the nice boss lady's cleavage."

It was only then that she turned to House. "Doctor House," she said as she put her hand gently to the pendant that hung on his chest and kept it there for a moment, looking intently into his empty face. Then she abruptly pulled away, nodded at Wilson and continued on her way.

House was a doctor again now for all the good that did him. The medical board had reinstated his license. Cuddy had organized it. They had also awarded him a commendation for dedication to medicine. He had showed the plaque to House on his birthday. Written on it were the words 'first do no harm'. House had paid no attention to it.

Typical, thought Wilson.

* * *

"Okay, here is your final present." He held out a small package and when House failed to take it he unwrapped it for him and stuck it under his nose.

"For you bucko. It's yours anyway. Well, maybe not. Maybe it belongs to all of us? Remember when you broke Julie's best knife?"

House looked at it intrigued. He reached out and plucked it slowly from Wilson's fingers.

He looked between it and Wilson for a few seconds. A strange look crossed his face. Maybe, thought Wilson, this might do the trick.

Then House stuck it in his mouth.

"House no – for God's sake," Wilson said urgently as he pulled it out by the chain and wiped it off.

"Don't… eat… it," he had ordered sternly, emphasizing every word as he fastened it around House's neck.

So far House hadn't tried to swallow it again so it appeared to be relatively safe. But every so often he saw House fingering it, turning it round and round, looking at it: either contemplating what it was or thinking about eating it. Wilson just hoped it wasn't the later. With House you never knew.

* * *

After Cuddy had gone Wilson turned to House, handing Clarence his backpack. "Make sure you are good," he admonished as he gave House a quick hug. It was a good thing House wasn't all there or he would have whapped Wilson one for doing that just on general principle. 'Bro's don't hug' House would have said.

Wilson put House's hand in Clarence's. "Don't let him eat too much junk food."

"Will do Doctor Wilson," said Clarence as he lead House away.

"And make sure he goes for a limp in the park?" he yelled as they moved off.

He watched as Clarence gave a shake of his hand in acknowledgement. Turning he noticed the guy from the elevator was sitting in a nearby chair, watching with his mouth open, an unspoken question on his lips.

Wilson opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He stared at the man for a few moments, and then walked away. He shook his head. It was amazing what life threw at you and it was amazing what you could live with.

* * *

Clarence also babysat House at home if Wilson had to go out. But Clarence had gone away for the week to visit his parents in Alabama and Wilson had to go out shopping. This meant taking House out on the House leash.

The psych Doctors had suggested it after House had bolted in the shopping centre. Christ he was glad he had gone into oncology. The idea of sticking someone on the end of a piece of string like a dog seemed abhorrent. He still remembered the look House's dad had given him when he'd seen it. But on the odd occasion when circumstances meant he had to take House to a 'potential bolt-able' situation he knew he had no other choice.

Hence the House leash. He hated it with a passion. The idea stemmed from the toddler leash. Which he also hated with a passion. But sometimes it was handy to be able to juggle the shopping, content in the knowledge that your deranged ex-convicted murderer insane best friend won't wander off.

They wandered into the fast food restaurant. Wilson in the lead; House bobbing along behind tentatively with his funny jerky walk on the end of his piece of string. Wilson knew the risks, but House had always loved the shakes here and even he was feeling reckless with his health today.

A few people gave them funny looks, but he just ignored them. Maybe they recognized House, but at least he wasn't in a position to care. And House didn't seem to mind it the string. Most of the time he stuck close to Wilson in public anyway. But then again it was tricky to tell what House minded. A couple of months back Wilson had noticed House was limping a bit more than usual. He checked him out and discovered House had broken one of the metatarsals in his foot. After so many years of pain and conditioning and fear House hadn't even dared to wince.

He ordered two thick shakes. Vanilla for him and chocolate for House. He tried to remember. He was pretty sure House liked chocolate.

As he waited for the drinks he slumped against the counter and rubbed his eyes. He didn't realise how tired he was. He felt hot, grimy and sweaty. As he fumbled for his wallet he didn't notice House was looking at him intently: like he was a lollipop ready for the swiping.

The extension of the McCorporate cash register pushed his shakes over the counter and told him to 'have a nice day', but he wasn't paying attention. He was mulling over the injustices of life. Ironic he thought, of all the places to get deep and philosophical… McHappy's

It was the bastardization of his friend's character that made Wilson the maddest. Everything about House – his fire, his arrogance and intellect, his sheer enjoyment of talking dirty – had been slowly and tortuously beaten out of him, he reflected sadly, not looking as he passed House his thick shake.

"Fuck it Jimmy, you know I hate chocolate."

Wilson turned around in astonishment and stared hard at his friend for a few moments. House was 'there' there. Looking at him with irritation. Oh my God, House is back, he thought stupidly. Only he would do it in the middle of fucking Mchappy's.

"How many years have you known me - I like strawberry…" House was about to continue, but he never got to finish his sentence. Wilson grabbed him and pulled him into a giant hug. Customers watched in amazement as the thick shake was crushed between the two men.

Eventually Wilson pulled away. House looked down at the crushed container, tilted his head and said: "not so good now huh." House's voice was a bit raspy, but it was there – complete with the silly stupid immature crazy brilliant irresistible mind that went with it.

There was only one sort of response in this sort of Gregory House situation. Wilson grabbed the shake and upended the remaining dregs onto House's head.

"You big limping twerp," he said happily as he watched the chocolately sludge dribble down House's face.

But then Wilson paused for a second and looked thoughtful. "You came back… Hang on," he said pointing a finger at House, with House there was always a reason. "Why did you decide to come back?"

House looked down at his shoes. "Well," he trailed off as if searching for an answer. "You… were looking a bit down," he said hopefully, totally evading the question.

Wilson put his hands on his hips, shook his head and sighed:

Typical fucking House.

* * *

"And why am I tied to you by a piece of string?"

* * *

EPILOGUE

Sometime before

Clarence and House were at the park. He smiled at the mental image of House being pushed on the swings. Jesus, if House ever got better the amount of blackmail material Wilson had on him would last for a lifetime.

He put on the video. He had to know what he was up against:

Wilson had never seen such despair and misery. It was captured in House's eyes as he gazed into the lens. For a moment, a second, he appeared to be begging, pleading to who ever was on the other side of the camera – for mercy, for something, for anything other than this… but then it was cut off as another blow fell, his whole body arching as he fell into the abyss of pain again.

There was no mercy for House. Only the contract.

* * *

Sometime later

When he came home House was sitting in Wilson's bedroom, sitting on the bed next to the box. Wilson stopped dead. The box. The box with the tapes.

He just looked up at Wilson, not saying anything. He didn't seem to be angry. If anything his expression was blank. Wilson took in the scene and stared back, not knowing what to do or how House would respond to the knowledge that he still had them.

"Clarence went to the shops," said House at last. "He'll be back in a few minutes."

Wilson nodded.

"We were out of milk and he said you would yell at him if I didn't have my daily glass of milk."

Wilson nodded slowly again.

"Gotta grow up big and strong with healthy bones," he said. "Not broken bones… bones break so easily, you'd be surprised. I should have drunk more milk," he said matter-of-factly, but Wilson winced as he took in the implications of that statement.

"Clarence always says I am too thin," continued House as he addressed the box. "But Clarence is big – and a serious big black dude." Wilson smiled. Sometimes House was unpredictable, sometimes he was just House.

House appeared to be lost in thought. "I got used to that feeling. I didn't call it anything; just 'that feeling'… and it became part of life, like being hurt. But I'd sit there, listening hard, as everyone else got theirs… the squeak of the cart, the little doors opening. I used to watch at first, but that became too painful." He'd hated the smug look and the cruel smile Boot Boy the guard would give him as they passed by his door. That bastard really enjoyed his misery.

Wilson knew that during his time in isolation House had been slowly and deliberately starved, getting about one meal in three. Apparently he would suck and chew at the dried blood on his prison shirt. Just the thought of anyone ever being so desperate as to have to resort to eating their own blood made Wilson sick to his stomach.

House had never talked about what else happened down there: the hours he had spent in the darkness.

House looked up. "But I couldn't stop listening. Every time. You can hear every little thing – noises bouncing off doors and walls and all those prison clichés. That cart used to sound so loud." He continued, almost apologetically. "I'd practically start to drool at the thought of it. Stupid really – considering it was tasteless shit. And it was always cold and always the same mound of unidentifiable goop. But more often than not the cart just squeaked past. So eventually I came to accept I was never going to get any," he said finally. "It made it easier."

"I knew that because of what I had done I wasn't going to get any. And that was that," he finished quickly. "Not much you can do when you are chained to the god dammed wall."

"But maybe I did deserve it. I told him people die, but maybe it was my fault? Christ, I had nothing to do but sit there and rack my brains, but I couldn't even remember her."

House fingered the edge of the box and smiled thinly. Wilson tensed. This was more information about how he felt than House had given in months. He didn't know if he should speak or shut up. Either way he could ruin it.

"There was nothing you could have done. She was always going to die. You weren't even her attending. Thompson was just insane. He just wanted to hurt someone – and the person he picked was you," Wilson said slowly. "But what about before you knew? When they came to you and you signed without hesitation. What you did for me… for all of us in that factory and in prison" asked Wilson?"

On the first night the lawyer had told House that he had a choice. If House didn't sign they would simply torture Wilson to death, but House would not be harmed.

* * *

"Can you live with that Greg," the lawyer had asked?

"What if I kill myself," he'd tried?

The lawyer had shrugged. "Same outcome for Doctor Wilson, but I'll just stretch it out a bit more. My personal best is 34 days."

* * *

House shook his head. "Don't Jimmy." And for the first time in his life House said 'please' and meant it. "Please don't Jimmy. What I did is mine alone. My choice, my burden." House looked down. "I'd do it all again. That's all you need to know," he said softly and Wilson knew this was as close to the truth as he was ever going to get.

House snorted. "It's a good thing he didn't pick Chase… otherwise we would have all been toast."

At this Wilson laughed with fond remembrance. "Yes, he truly was a little weasel."

They didn't speak for a few minutes. Then House suddenly stopped his intensive inspection of the box and looked at Wilson.

"You saw?" he asked. But it was a statement not a question.

Wilson nodded slowly, knowing House knew anyway.

"It becomes a part of life," said House and Wilson suddenly realized what they were talking about.

"Like picking up the dry cleaning…" he continued absently.

"Oh God Greg," muttered Wilson softly under his breath.

He wanted to go over and hug the other man, but House seemed frozen, fragile and he was afraid that if he even touched him he would break. There was a slight frown on his face as House stared at the box. Eventually Wilson slowly and carefully sat down on the other side of the bed.

He leaned over and picked up the box, putting it on the floor. House was watching him with wide eyes. For a man who had been through so much he suddenly seemed so open: so vulnerable. He looked like he would crumble at any moment. Wilson carefully picked up one of House's hands, and ignoring the sarcastic Housian look he got, stared into his eyes.

"House. I promise, as long as I live - you will never have to pick up the dry cleaning ever again."

House looked at him, first with amazement, then he began to snigger. Suddenly Wilson found himself thrown backwards onto the bed as House grabbed him in a bear hug. House was squeezing the life out of him, but laughing into him at the same time. He felt it vibrate through him. It was a good sound. It had been too long since House had laughed – and little Jimmy Wilson, boy wonder oncologist, reveled in the fact that he was the only one who could make it happen.

"Arghh, House – oxygen," he managed to splutter. House released his death grip and put his hands on Wilson's chest, like a puppy dog, as he lay on top of him. Wilson could feel his sweaty fleshy warmth, his angular bones as they dug into his soft spots, the key that now always hung from the chain around his neck as it danced over his chest, and then there was the peculiar Housian rumbling he seemed to continuously make whether asleep or awake.

House put his chin on Wilson's breastbone and his big blue eyes looked thoughtfully at him. They stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity, locked in their strange relationship: protector, protectee… protectee, protector.

Eventually House spoke. "You know I always thought you would have made a good teddy bear."

"What!?...

...House?

...Come back here...

You bastard."

* * *

He was sitting on his bed, next to that stuffed toy white thing. He was looking at him, but not saying anything. It was unnerving. Before you just couldn't shut him up. Even now Wilson said he can still go whole days without uttering a sound. When Wilson pushed him he would just mutter something about a dog kennel and clam up.

"I didn't know," John said eventually.

"Nobody did." Greg laughed softly. "I think that was the idea. But nobody did what you did." He went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a little cardboard box. He sat it down on the bed.

"Did you know that Wilson wrote to me every month while I was in prison?"

John didn't know how to answer.

"I didn't," said Greg. He smiled ruefully at some private joke. "They were rerouted, so to speak. I don't know why he wrote to me because we hadn't been speaking for a while. But he did."

"They found them and gave them to me." He rummaged in the box. "Just simple stuff. He never mentioned anything important. What was happening at the hospital, his trips to the dentist. Silly stuff really."

He held one out in one of his trembling misshapen hands, but John couldn't bring himself to take it. Eventually Greg dropped his arm into his lap.

"I read them sometimes. I wish I could have read them at the time." He looked down at the letter.

"Your visit was unexpected though. I was in lock down. That means I hadn't been out of my cell or off my chain for however long. They had taken my blanket. In solitary you don't have a mattress. In solitary you sleep on the floor. That's why Wilson puts so many pillows and blankets in my bed – or crib - as you called it. He knows I get cold easily."

I didn't know that either, he thought. And it was a crib. It was a big wooden bed with a side thing that could be pulled up and it was overflowing with pillows and blankets.

* * *

He'd been embarrassed when he had seen it.

Greg had got into bed when Wilson ordered, but now he was mewling softly and refusing to settle as Wilson tucked him in.

"Would you ask Clarence to get Mr Vicodin?" Wilson asked apologetically.

"Mr What?"

"He'll understand."

Clarence brought in what looked like a small white stuffed toy oblong thing with legs and a big V on its chest. It looked a bit like a big furry pill.

"Oh thanks," said Wilson absently as he pushed the pill thing into the tangle of blankets next to Greg's head. Greg grabbed it and rolled over; twisting himself up in the blankets.

"Now stop with the whining House," Wilson ordered mock sternly.

The only response was a contented sigh from somewhere in the mass of blankets.

Wilson leaned down and John was sure he saw him gently kiss Greg's one exposed ear.

Wilson said Greg making sounds is a positive step. That soon he might talk again. But Jesus - if he sleeps with a stuffed toy? And what the hell was that thing anyway?

"Why does he sleep in a crib?"

Wilson hesitated. Wilson wasn't going to tell Mr House the real reason without House's say so. That House would get up in the night and sleep curled up in a tight ball on the floor or in a corner because that is what he was used to: "To keep him safe," he said as he lifted up the side of the bed. Wilson pulled the blankets up so there was nothing of his son visible. Then he turned to John. "Just to keep him safe Mr House."

* * *

Greg's gaze followed his arm. He looked down at his lap. He spoke in a monotone. "They extracted me. Being extracted isn't really all that fun. But then I got a wash and a shave. It felt nice to be clean. However after your visit they took me downstairs and they beat me. They beat me so badly they broke my jaw for the third time. Then they just put me back in my cell. It took them a whole day to realize there was something seriously wrong. They were terrified. They had strict orders not to kill me. They thought I was going to die. At least I got a trip to the infirmary out of it. But after I was…" Greg searched for the right word: "punished - for causing them all that inconvenience - a bit more carefully that time though."

Greg held the letter out at arms length and examined it with his good eye. "Didn't do much at work this week. You would have been proud. The drycleaners actually did a good job on my suits this time," he read. He shook his head. "Silly, silly stuff, but I really would have killed for them."

His son leant forward. Greg looked at him hard. "When Wilson is not here and I feel cold I think about his letters. When I think about you I remember lying on the concrete floor of my cell with three cracked ribs and a broken jaw; grieving the death of my mother and trying not to choke on my own blood."

Greg snorted. "See the difference dad?"

* * *

Wilson walked into the space and set down the box and the can of gasoline. He was alone. It was dark. It was quiet. But the place screamed at him. It filled his ears. It stank of fear and pain. It reminded him of the time he had gone to Auschwitz. Even forty years after the horror had ended and the people had gone, you could still feel the atmosphere oozing thickly through the walls.

He looked down at his feet. There was a brown stain on the concrete floor. He blinked slowly. He knew whose blood had made that stain.

It was still here. Left over and forgotten, but intact. A shrine to vengeance. The place where the battle for his life had been fought. Not much of a battlefield. But then they aren't all that impressive. Fields, meadows, streets filled with bloodstains that would be washed away by the next rain shower. He wandered around the empty space, his feet crackling on the grimy floor.

He gazed at a big brown table sitting in the middle of the room, absentmindedly fingering one of the ringbolts that were drilled into each corner. It was a big old sturdy worktable. It reminded him of Greg's old kitchen table. He remembered House's eyes lighting up with glee at Wilson look after he had announced it was an antique autopsy table.

* * *

"But I just made this sandwich on there…" he had stammered as he dropped the sandwich back onto his plate.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," House had teased as he swiped the remains of the sandwich and threw himself down on the couch next to him. He had looked at Wilson in mock indignation. "I cleaned it – with water and everything," he had said stuffing the sandwich into his mouth.

* * *

Wilson reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper: House's gift to him. House had never known he'd kept that too. He put it gently down on the table, smoothing it lovingly out on the bumpy wood before turning away.

A flash of sky blue caught his eye. He walked over to the wall and picked up the crumpled up shirt. It had been one of House's (and Cuddy's) favourites, but now it lay forgotten, stiff with muck and grime, like a relic of war.

He stood there for a long time, clutching the shirt in his hands, just looking around. This was a shrine to vengeance.

He watched it burn. As a testament of love, he thought, as he mentally whacked himself in the shin with a cane for such a sappy sentiment.

When he returned next morning it was so normal the events from the night before felt surreal.

He could hear the radio playing an eighties rock song in the kitchen. Clarence was badly singing along while he made breakfast, pausing only to stick his head round the corner and smile hello when Wilson walked in before happily going back to his singing. He waved a hand. Still, even now, Clarence was 'the bodyguard'. The security that had been denied House all those years. No one could get past Clarence.

He found House sprawled on the couch, Steve snoozing his shoulder. Keeping each other company. Steve was getting on and between House and Clarence he got spoiled. He really was getting fat now. The little furry butterball House called him. But that didn't stop him from feeding Steve Wilson's best Camembert.

Steve had given up his wheel (House had diagnosed arthritis) and now lived a life of decadence, snoozing and sunning himself in all manner of dangerous place. Wilson had nearly sat on him twice in the last month, but House seemed to have an inbuilt Steve McQueen radar. House would be just about to unceremoniously fall onto a couch, when he would suddenly reach behind him and a small furry ball would appear, saved from being squished in the nick of time.

They were both sunning themselves in the window. House like a cat, Steve like a rat: both enjoying lazing in the warmth. A pleasure too long denied.

One of the prison guards had turned informer in exchange for clemency. During the investigation into the corruption in the prison he had described the conditions House had been kept in.

The new tough on crime prison kept its punishment cells in the basement. For most of the time the convicts down there saw no human contact but the hand that pushed their food through the door. There was a policy of absolute silence – no talking, no singing, no screaming – absolute isolation. Half the time in darkness, the other in gloom. Daylight became a distant memory.

Inmates were not meant to be kept in the punishment unit for more than three weeks. House had spent over a year down there in the dark.

And for House it was worse. Although completely illegal, the warden had ordered House be put in handcuffs as well as leg irons and the cuffs to be secured to the wall with a chain. There was no point to this except to make his life sheer misery.

The guard said that at first he would sometimes hear House's chains rattle as he slowly paced his cell, four shuffling steps one way, and four steps back; but at the end he had given up and would just tug constantly at the chain that held him to the wall or just sit huddled with his face to the corner. He didn't even walk in the exercise cage. After they had dragged him there he would just stagger a few feet and crumple into a ball of misery, refusing to move no matter how much they kicked and punched him.

Wilson could barely comprehend the horror when the psychiatrists had said it was probably only the regular torments Thompson had organized that had broken the sheer monotony and stopped House from going mad from the sensory deprivation and the restraints. Inmates only got one hour's exercise in the cage a week; House got regular 'special workouts', ranging from being used as a guinea pig for 'inmate extraction' exercises to simple sport for bored corrections officers. Apparently a favourite game was called 'cripple toss'. He was also 'sold' regularly – advertised as docile and eager to please.

In other words he had become nothing but an object to be hated and tortured… and had come to believe it. The only thing keeping him going was the contract.

But Wilson didn't know about Dream Jimmy.

Maybe why that was why he had gone away for so long thought Wilson. He had to find himself again.

Even now he didn't like the dark. One day House had announced he wanted to go shopping. They had gone to Baby World and House had taken great pleasure in selecting the most hideous night-light he could find. It was nauseatingly cute, adorned with unicorns and some sort of disturbing looking elf like things.

"Can I have it mom?" he had asked loudly, startling a prospective mother of what looked like twins.

Wilson rolled his eyes and played along. He knew this was House's way of not saying 'I'm afraid of the dark'.

"Yes junior, you can," he replied.

"Can I have a lollipop too?"

Wilson eyed the woman who was now openly staring at them. "Don't push it or I'll put you back on the string," he said as he hustled House away.

As Wilson entered he looked over drowsily, but then his eyes narrowed. "What did you burn down?" he asked.

"What?"

"You were out all night, you smell of gasoline and you are sooty. So I presume you torched something last night."

Wilson sighed and gently kicked House's feet off the couch, sat down beside him. "Do you really want to know?"

House sat up and eyed him warily. The fear was always just under the surface as if he still suspected it wasn't really over. That there was a third act to the play. House was silent for a minute. "Yes," he said slowly. Wilson watched as he unconsciously massaged the bracelet scars that circled his wrists. Even Steve looked at him expectantly, the light reflecting off his little beady eyes.

"The factory."

House stiffened and stared at the floor. Steve sensed the change and ran down House's body and onto Wilson. House let him go.

"You were there?" he said.

"Yes," replied Wilson. "It wasn't just your burden you know."

"And?"

"And I burned it down. Happy now."

House looked at his friend and then a slow smile spread across his face and he laughed softly to himself.

"Yeah… Thanks," he said as he plucked Steve off Wilson's jacket.

"Your welcome…what are friends for?"

THE END

* * *

Thanks to all who reviewed and commented. All carefully thought about and greatly appreciated. Hopefully all the typos are out – although I know there is a though/t one I just can't find.

And:

If you are still a bit confused and are wondering just exactly what all this contract business was about go check out the Contractverse on contractverse./ or chcek out diysheep on LJ. Here you will find over a million words with fantastic darker alternate stories and happy stories about House getting better written by lots more talented writers than me – and Mr Vicodin in the flesh.


	3. Chapter 3

I do apologise. I was trying to expunge the typos from the K and ff.dot.pit of voles wouldn't let me put it back in one big glob, so there are now three bits. Nothing particularly exciting or new, but just less typos. If you want to read more Contractverse stories check out my LJ DIY Sheep (on the left), and read all the wonderfull stories written by much more talented people than me.

* * *

THE MISSING SCENES

House: So what are we doing here?

Wilson: Well, as far as I can gather these are DVD extras from that story The Contract. The missing scenes…

House: Oh brilliant. I bet I get even more horribly tortured. One day I'm going to get that little walking jumper.

Wilson: No, apparently this is how the original story was meant to go in the middle, but these scenes could never be fitted in because it would take an entire rewrite of the second half. So it is bit of a parallel dimension type interlude.

DIY Sheep: That is a fancy way of saying because I write backwards I couldn't be buggered.

House (lunging): There it is – get it!

House: Jesus. That is one fast sheep.

Wilson: According to the synopsis it sort of extends the story and looks at the other characters a bit more in depth.

House: In depth? Does that mean I get dropped to the bottom of the ocean like Angel in Angel?

Wilson (scrolling): No… but oh dear. Let's just say it isn't exactly a happy story and contains 'nasty icky stuff' and 'rude words'… and is not 'Poeia compatible'. What does that mean?

House: No idea, but just kill me now!

Wilson: No, that apparently comes later.

House: I give up – roll tape.

Wilson: It picks up about half way through the story after you have been told 'the big secret', but before you get out of prison. There is also a big note stuck to the side saying it would help if you have read the original story (chapter 1) or else you are going to be very confused.

* * *

BIT OF THE ORIGINAL CONTRACT STORY WHERE WE VEER INTO MISSING SCENES

Freedom. Not something for him. But he still thought about it sometimes. He stretched out his arms as far as they would go and waggled them around. A simple pleasure, but one long denied. He only got out of the cuffs one hour a week. It felt good. Not much felt good any more.

He ignored his wrists. Never good to dwell on the bad stuff. Just make sure you keep surviving Greg. Just stay alive. That's the most important thing.

He began to trot around the little exercise cage in a circle: hop stepping slowly. Even with the chains on his ankles he was enjoying the space around him after so long being confined in his claustrophobic little cell.

He was concentrating on not tripping over his own feet when Boot Boy (so named because of House's familiarity with Boot Boy's boots) yelled at him.

"Hey 501."

He looked up. That was his name now.

"Merry Christmas fuckwit."

The guard laughed at his look of bewilderment.

"It's Christmas Day you piece of shit."

He stopped walking. Now that was unfair. How was he supposed to know it was Christmas? Everywhere he looked it was grey. Grey walls, grey floors, grey bars, grey everything. Not a piece of tinsel in sight.

He stared at the floor as Boot Boy called him a fuckstick and a faggot and promised he'd be getting his Christmas present good and hard this year. Oh thanks there Boot Boy: something to look forward to.

He didn't say a word. He couldn't. He wasn't allowed and Boot Boy had a particular fondness for stomping on his hands and hands came in handy. He just waited until the guard got tired of tormenting him and resumed his walking: his stupid walking in a little circle in a fucking cage walking.

It was all he could do.

Merry Christmas Wilson. I hope you like your present.

Another year over: a new one just begun.

He wondered which one it was.

He hoped it was a good one.

* * *

Now – in the original version this is where 'you know who' suddenly snuffs it in what the sheep likes to call an 'example of the bizarre randomness of the world', but everyone else calls 'a cop out' and we move on to the nice stuff.

* * *

DVD MISSING SCENES FROM THE ORIGINAL STORY BOARD

His eyes opened and he twitched a bit when he heard the locks being pulled back, but he didn't move. And why should he. Why should he have to do all the work? Here he was all comfy and settled and with this wonderful view of the floor and the wall.

Then he smelt it. Oh you bastards, he thought. That's good. That's almost too good. This was better than a kicking. Pain shot through him as his stomach twisted and yelled at him: 'Come on House! Stop staring at the corner and get your lazy butt off the floor. There's food around.' His nose confirmed it: 'Fries and a burger.' His ears chimed in: 'And I can hear ice clicking from side to side in a paper cup. There's a drink there too.'

'I'm sorry guys, but I don't think that's for us,' his brain told them and refused to make any of his limbs move. Only his mouth rebelled and kept drooling.

'Stop it,' his brain said.

'I'm sorry,' said the mouth. 'I can't help it. You know what I'm like. I'm as bad as his dick.'

'Hey,' complained his dick. 'Don't bring me into all this.'

He began to giggle then laugh at his arguing organs. God they were funny. Funny funny guys.

A sharp kick brought him back to reality. "Hey big guy: up and at'em," said a voice. 'That hurt,' said his left thigh.

"Shut up. All of you – now,' bellowed his brain. It consulted with his memory for a nano-second and began issuing rapid fire orders. 'Move, move, move,' it barked. 'Arms, legs… go go go. I don't care if it fucking hurts: just pump a bit more adrenalin down there and move it.'

House rolled over slowly. 'Oh shit,' said his brain. 'It's him.' House pushed himself up against the wall.

"Hey Greggers," said the lawyer from where he was leaning lazily against the opposite wall.

House stared at the lawyer stupidly. The lawyer frowned and looked at him closely. "You still with me?"

House watched hypnotized as he pulled out a chip from the greasy plastic bag he was carrying. It was big. One of those totally impossible six inch numbers. He put it on the cell floor and motioned with his head to the toilet. "Stick it in," he said slowly.

House reached out and clumsily grasped it in one manacled hand. It was hot and he could feel the salt on his fingers. 'Come on baby,' said his taste buds. 'You can do it.'

House looked at the chip and then at the toilet. Really; you want me to put something like this in that, he seemed to say.

The lawyer stared at him. "That's right Greg. Do it."

'No choice House,' said his brain sadly. 'Come on arms. Do your thing.'

He reached his hands out until they were over the bowl.

'No!' screamed his stomach.

House dropped it in.

He fell back down to the floor. "Yeah, I'm still with you," he whispered.

The lawyer laughed. He sat back against the wall and dug around in the bag. "Good." He pointed a chip thoughtfully at House. "Although I think it might be time for a holiday." He reached over and hit the flush button: sending the chip down the drain and into oblivion.

'Crap,' thought House's brain. 'Foiled.'

* * *

The 'boys' pulled him out of the trunk and hauled him upright. They were standing in front of a police station in New York. No one even glanced their way. Only in New York could you pull someone from out of the trunk of a car in broad daylight in front of a police station. Why had they brought him here, now, after only one week after going through all the trouble of killing two inmates to make it look like he had died in prison?

Mr Thompson and the lawyer joined them. "Read this," said the lawyer as he handed him a piece of paper. "Holiday's over Greg."

It was a confession, written by him. His face fell. "Oh no please, not there… not again."

Thompson smiled. "Don't worry Greg. It won't be for long."

"You go in there, give your name and why you're there and ask for detective Grey. He'll take care of you. Off you go," he said as if speaking to a child.

House turned and slowly walked up the steps to the station. The crumpled piece of paper in his hand: his death warrant.

What now, he thought. What the fuck now? Another humiliating trial; more clippings about how he was dirt for Wilson and Cuddy and his parents to read; more friendly guards and fucking chains. Then at the end of it: Old Sparky. Did they even have the electric chair any more in New Jersey? If so it would be crispy fried House.

He turned and took one look at the two smug men standing by the car, sighed and went in.

* * *

He stood dejectedly in line for about ten minutes, reading over his story and waiting while single moms and yuppies complained about lost purses and unjust parking fines. The cop behind the desk looked a bit bored.

"What can I do for you buddy?"

"Hi, name is Gregory House: a convicted murderer, armed robber, violent criminal and twice prison escapee and I probably have a few unpaid parking fines as well. I just came in to confess to a couple more killings and give myself up in a fit of remorse. Could I speak to Detective Grey please?" he said in a monotone.

Needless to say that little speech was a show stopper worthy of a Tony.

* * *

Ferrier came up to them dragging a prisoner behind him. "Right," he said as he threw the prisoner to the ground. "Here's our crash test dummy."

He recognized the prisoner. It was the crippled doctor. He was officially on the row, but had been taken to solitary after only a few weeks and never come back. Which was odd. He had rarely spoken, never given lip, and had always obeyed orders. Unlike most of the guys here who screamed and hollered all day and night, he'd just lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling. But even so he always got it. There was something different about him. The other guys had never said it directly, they just told him to 'stay away' from him and let them handle it. Even the other prisoners had never talked to him.

"Get in the cell," Ferrier screamed into the prisoner's ear. The prisoner scrambled to obey the command, scrabbling and crawling across the floor into the death cell. But he wasn't fast enough and got a boot up his backside.

Once the prisoner was in, panting on the floor of the cell, Ferrier slammed the door and turned. "Right, we got ourselves here a dead man about to walk," he said gesturing to the man on the floor. "He's had his shower and he's been changed into his dying clothes – which is basically his striped trousers and a short sleeve t-shirt. He is now sitting with his 'spiritual advisor' a la that nun bitch who gets off on hanging out with dead guys and he is praying that the governor is going to grant him mercy."

Ferrier turned. "Sit on the goddamned bed and pray you faggot," he screamed. Without a beat he turned back to them. "It is time to 'respectfully and solemnly', so as not to offend any nuns in the vicinity, get our man for his final walk."

He watched as the prisoner dragged himself up on the bed and clasped his hands tightly, his eyes shut. He really did look like he was praying.

"You can't use him for this Sir," he said urgently as he gestured to the prisoner in the cell.

Ferrier smiled. "Why not? It will be good practice for him." Ferrier smashed his baton into the bars: making the prisoner jump. "He'll know what to expect." The smugness was evident in his tone.

"How long now 501?" he asked with mock innocence as he glanced round into the cell.

"Sir, two months, Sir Boss Sir," said the man on the bed quietly.

"And what are you going to ask for as your last meal?" Ferrier continued lightly as he tapped his baton against the bars.

"Sir, your baton up my backside, Sir Boss Sir."

Ferrier laughed and turned to the guards. "Right, let's go through the procedure."

* * *

"Gotta make 'em real tight or they'll twitch." He went round and yanked hard on each strap. "They'll complain they are too tight, but pay no mind to them. They'll be dead soon enough anyway," he finished with a smirk. "Dead men's opinions don't count." Ferrier looked down at the man strapped to the gurney. "Isn't that right 501?"

"Make sure they are tight," said Ferrier as he went over to the dispensing unit.

He pulled half heartedly at one of the straps holding the prisoner's arm down to show he was doing his job. He tried not to look at the man. He could hear the prisoner struggling to breathe because the chest strap was too tight. The man's shallow short breaths were almost painful to hear. This is not how he imagined anyone spending their last few moments on Earth.

Ferrier's voice startles him out of his thoughts. "Right, now that we have drugged him, plugged him and secured him, it is time for the doc to find the vein."

"McCain – you swab his arm. To make it look sanitized."

He grabbed a swab of cotton and turns to rub it over the prisoner's exposed arm. It is then he catches his eye. The man's eyes hold no anger, just a horrible sort of sadness and resignation. They seemed to say 'Go ahead. It doesn't matter. I'm not a real person. I'm dead already. Dead men don't count do they?'.

"Time for lunch boys," Ferrier had announced as he shoved him in and cuffed the one of the dummy's hands to the bars of the death cell. "We'll do another couple of runs and then call it a day," he said shutting the gate.

He'd come back early. One: he couldn't stand those morons and two he thought he might have left a half smoked packet of cigarettes in his jacket. No luck with the smokes so he pulled out his sandwiches and began to chew thoughtfully as he stared at the prisoner in the death cell.

The man was sitting in the cell staring at the floor. His cuffed hand clasping the bars and his other one listlessly lying in his lap. What a life, he thought. And what a future.

He looked uncertain as McCain approached. He eyed McCain's nightstick as if he was calculating what McCain was going to do to him. McCain unclenched his fists and let them dangle at his sides: trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

"What's your name?"

"Sir, Inmate 501437 Dead Man Walking, Sir, Boss Sir," he mumbled ducking his head as he said it.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. "No, what do people call you."

The prisoner hesitated. He looked warily up at him, sizing him up. "Sir, Fuckstick mostly, Sir Boss Sir," he said quietly. "Or 501," he added quickly. "That's the first bit of my number Sir Boss Sir."

I gathered, he thought dryly. It was plastered all over him: across the man's chest, on his trousers and on his back – right above the bright red DEATH ROW that was stenciled on there.

What a choice, he thought. When you actually preferred to be known as a number.

"You're missing lunch. Are you hungry?"

"Sir, no Sir. Not at all Sir Boss Sir," the prisoner told the floor, twisting on his chain. But he knew this was a lie because the prisoner's eyes had been fixed on the sandwich he held in his hand.

He held it out. The prisoner tentatively reached out with his free hand to take offered sandwich, but snatched it back when Ferrier's voice boomed down the corridor.

"Don't feed the fucker." Ferrier was striding towards them. "There's no point in feeding him now – what with only two months to go."

* * *

They were doing the first run after lunch when their crash test dummy went on strike. He had patiently gone through the pre-chamber procedure, but suddenly stopped and dug in his heels at the sight of the execution chamber.

"Come on you big baby. You've done it three times today already," said Marsters as he tugged on the prisoner's arm.

"No, this is good," said Ferrier raising a hand. "They aren't all nancy boy faggots like 501 here. He'll probably spring up there like a fairy."

McCain looked over at the prisoner. He paid no attention to Ferrier and just stared at the gurney thoughtfully. After a moment he shook his head and stopped resisting. They continued on.

* * *

"I was killed five times today, but I didn't die." 501 sounded bewildered, as if he couldn't work out why he was still here.

"Would you like to die?"

"Sir, yes Sir Boss Sir. I would like that very much Sir Boss Sir." He looked up at him with those big sad resigned eyes. "Sir, but I can't Sir Boss Sir."

"Sir can't die Sir Boss Sir. Got a job to do Sir Boss Sir."

"Your execution is scheduled," he said shaking his head.

The prisoner gave a small snort as if he was enjoying his own private joke. "Sir, maybe if I'm good enough; maybe they'll let me die Sir Boss Sir."

* * *

He woke up. He felt awful – thick and gluggy. He could feel carpet underneath him and he was looking up at a white ceiling. Did they have carpet in the afterlife? Probably not. And as he wasn't lucky enough to have been accidentally bamfed into Milliways that meant his theory about the whole thing had been a sham had been right. Unfortunately it hadn't made it any less terrifying. "I'm meant to be dead," he whispered.

"You are," said the lawyer coming into view and staring down at him. "For all official intents and purposes you are dead." The lawyer looked at him thoughtfully. "Was it an interesting experience," he mused. "Not many people get to survive their own execution. You'll have to tell me about it later. Now welcome to the rest of your life."

Oh enough with the clichéd lines, thought House.

* * *

He was sitting listlessly against the wall of the laundry room, his legs splayed and his hands lying leaden beside him. This was usually where he was during the odd times he wasn't needed.

It was hot down here, even with the cool brick floors. His shirt was drenched with perspiration. The heat made him drowsy. He didn't know, but he guessed he must be somewhere down south. Florida maybe? He swayed in time with the rhythmic cycle of the washing machines and the music in his head. He had heard it the last time he had been in the kitchen. The cook had been playing it on her radio. It was Latino music.

He liked the cook. She sometimes gave him food when no one was looking. Real food. The packaging on the bag said it was nutritionally balanced and encouraged a healthier, shinier coat, but then again he didn't actually have a coat and he bet the people who had designed that bag didn't have to eat the stuff day in day out. Oddly enough it was a step up from prison food though.

And she talked to him. Like Wilson had done – but without the lecturing thing. No one had really talked to him for a very long time.

The cook was sad for him. No one should have to live like you Limpy, she'd say to him in Spanish, not knowing he could understand her. Then she'd go on to tell him about her daughters and how she didn't like any of their boyfriends because they all either had eyes that were too close together or too far apart.

He'd resist the urge to snort, stop his scrubbing and look at her with wide uncomprehending pleading eyes like the dogs did and she would give in and, with a quick furtive check, throw him something. No one can resist the lure of Limpy's blue eyes, he thought. Except Senora Maria the housekeeper. If she caught him begging she would beat him – or worse – tell someone and he'd be called upstairs for a proper punishment and you didn't want that.

* * *

Later

He trembled. He'd done the unthinkable. He'd run away. He hadn't run far away because the estate was surrounded by an electric fence, but far enough to make everyone mad. Oh God, he sobbed silently as he hugged himself. It was getting dark and his ragged clothes had gotten soaked from washing the windows and were no protection from the chill. It was getting cold in the evenings now. That meant he had been here for a while: living in the same house as that mad bastard and the sicko lawyer.

He was fucked. He didn't know why he'd done it. He'd been scared and he'd just bolted. He had no idea where he was going or why. It was just animal instinct. He just couldn't stand another second in that house. He'd thought prison was bad, but this was even worse. For him it was like living on a knife edge. He never knew what was coming. Maybe he'd do something wrong and Thompson would snap and kill someone. Every second was dangerous with the promise of another beating. When Maria had cornered him with that look in her eye and muttering something about the windows he'd lost it.

Not done properly or something…

Never good enough. And it was all his fault. Fuck! Maria was like a meaner female version of his dad.

He wiped his dripping nose on his knee. The bastard thing seemed to drip like a tap now. You'd think he'd be used to it, but still he hated the idea that someone could hurt him without a second thought because that's all he was there for.

And it wasn't fair because he'd spent all day cleaning the windows and it wasn't like he was trained in window cleaning. He'd studied medicine. Not well enough as Mr Thompson Sir like to remind him. But he'd really tried with those windows. He always tried – even though he was weak and hungry and never got enough sleep. He lived up to his part of the bargain.

He popped his name tag in his mouth and sucked on it. Sucking it always made him feel better. It stopped the hunger pangs and he liked its odd metallic taste. But if he got caught doing it he'd get in trouble.

His tongue traced the engraving on it. Limpy. Stupid name. It was more likely about to be changed to Very Much In Pain Limpy or Stuffed In The Big Washing Machine Again Limpy now. That was the good thing about prison. You couldn't get more than five steps before bouncing off a wall. There was no way you could bolt anywhere.

Oh God. They'll find him soon and he'll be enjoying the spin cycle ride again. He'd made it to the shooting range and was tucked behind the old water barrel that Mr Grey liked to try drowning him in every so often. He doesn't like the shooting range. Paintballs hurt.

Sport? He doesn't think chasing a crippled guy around and shooting him with paintballs is really sport; but what does he know: he's just 'one of those things that he never thinks about' and they seem to enjoy it and if Mr Thompson's happy then he's happy – and if they want to hit him with paint balls what is he to do except to try and work out how to get the stains out of his clothes before he gets in trouble again.

Eventually he went back to the house. The door was unlocked. He realized they hadn't even bothered to look for him. They knew he'd come back. He was that pathetic. That bit of paper was far more effective and painful than any chains could ever be. He quietly let himself in and stood patiently outside Mr Grey's office. Mr Grey didn't even speak a word to him, he'd just opened the door and, like the good little slave he was, House had followed him in. Why not use the word now: there wasn't much point to pretend anymore.

And he knew what they used to do to runaway slaves.

* * *

The next morning Maria kicked him awake and told him he screamed like a girl. What did she know? This wasn't the movies, the blood wasn't fake and he wasn't Charles Bronson taking it stoically like a man in Hi Ho Whatever.

She told him that if he wanted to eat tonight he'd have to put in his usual day's work. House nearly screamed. He could barely stand to move let alone endure Maria's usual tortuous routine for him, but he just mumbled a quick 'Yes Senora Maria', struggled pull on his shirt, wincing as the fabric came into contact with his back and, keeping as far out of Maria's reach as possible, slunk off with his head down to go chop the day's firewood.

* * *

"Who's he? said Billy Romero gesturing at House as he poured them some more champagne.

"Nobody."

"This is a delicate matter Robert. I don't want anyone who might talk overhearing while we talk business."

Thompson laughed. "Oh don't worry about him. He won't say anything. That's why I use him for these sort of meetings. I own him you see."

* * *

Mr Grey grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him up. The lawyer eyed House over. "He looks like a fuckin hillbilly." he said. On this point House had to agree with him. Although clean and starched to beyond perfection his clothes were old, worn from repeated bleachings and too big on his gaunt frame – and this was his good outfit: and he was still wearing the prison issue boots he had supposedly died in. His attire had attracted some interested stares from the doormen and the concierges when they checked in. But given the nature of Mr Thompson's party and Las Vegas in general they knew it was a wise move not to say anything.

"He can't been seen in a hospital looking like this. Get him some decent clothes," Mr Grey said as he threw House down. House hit the plush hotel carpet face first and, biting back the agony of his leg, went into 'please don't kick me' mode number 3: the one that hoped, if he was still enough, quiet enough and stopped breathing, they might forget he was even there and get distracted enough for him to escape to an out of the way corner and avoid a kicking.

"We need some clothes for…" Mr Sammy trailed off as he pointed to House. House gaped uselessly back at him. He didn't think Sammy the Idiot even knew his name. To them he was just Limpy or hey you or get out of my way or a quick kick or go feed the dog if he was lucky. "Our friend," Sammy eventually finished. "A nice suit and some shirts and things."

* * *

"Make sure you don't say anything and keep your wrists covered."

House nodded at the lawyer. For once he wasn't riding in the trunk. He was actually sitting in the back of the car. It would look odd if a well respected doctor arrived at the clinic, just popped out of the trunk and said hi. That probably wouldn't inspire much confidence in his diagnostic abilities. He preferred traveling this way anyway. It had been a long trip to Las Vegas and with all the luggage there hadn't been much room for him.

The lawyer examined him. "You actually scrub up quite good. Not much we can do about the other scars and the hands. A car accident in Patagonia and arthritis." Mr Grey laughed. "You were working for Doctor's Abroad and heroically saved a bus load of orphans."

He grabbed one of House's hands and pulled back the pinky. "Whatever you say," he said slowly and menacingly. "Make it sound good or when we get back I'll break every one of your fingers again."

He knew bad things happened to him when Mr Grey got that tone in his voice. "Yes Sir," said House as fast as he could. "My name is Doctor Simon Jones, I was in an accident and I have been working in South America for the past ten years."

"And remember. This is Mr Thompson's cousin, so I'd really save her if I were you."

"Yes Sir."

The lawyer let go of his hand. "You know Greg: that's what I like about you. You're smart."

He sat back. "How long have we known each other know?"

"A long time Sir." And I've hated every minute of it you cock sucking bastard.

"That's right Greg. It has been a while."

* * *

"Would you like some coffee with your sugar?"

He looked up at her and tried to smile. It's food. I'll take what I can get. The lady doctor in charge of the case was a bit on the hefty side and judging by the soy milk in her fridge probably had a whole bookshelf dedicated to the hippy diet books that she'd tried. The secret to losing weight is simple lady: just get locked away in a small tomb and starved until you end up sucking the dried blood off your fucking filthy stripey shirt because you are so hungry that you have to do something… anything before you go mad with hunger; or if that doesn't do it for you – forget the Atkins Diet – just live in constant fear, be worked to the bone and get thrown a handful of dog food every so often.

"I'm a bit of a sweet tooth," he said apologetically. He glanced at Sammy who was posing badly as his assistant and spooned another load into his coffee.

"That's quite a limp."

He started: limp – limpy – dog – hit the dog – hit him. "What?"

"You have quite a limp," she repeated. "Was that the accident too?"

He unconsciously rubbed the leg. It was funny. He used to spend a lot of his time thinking about his leg. Now, after not having even seen a cane in over five years and having other things to worry about, he had just stopped thinking about it. He got around. Even if sometimes he had to crawl. And nowadays most of him hurt just as bad as the leg.

"No, this was an infarction about ten years back. No biggie." He went back to reading the file. This was hard. He had to concentrate. Patching up stupid gangster's bullet wounds was easy: nothing to diagnose. But this was tough, and he was missing on about five years of medical advances and the pressure for this particular case was intense.

He'd thought he'd blown it yesterday when he had actually asked what a piece of machinery was. What sort of doctor isn't up on the latest medical journals and recognize medical equipment? Mr Grey hadn't been to happy about that little boo boo and had expressed his displeasure most forcefully. House ignored both her and his aching back and put the file up in front of his face. If ever there was a clear sign…

But the silly bint kept going. "Now that's funny, but that reminds me of this doctor: Gregory House. He was meant to be brilliant, he was a diagnostician and I heard he walked with a limp." She smiled at him. "But I heard he's dead now – or that's what James tells me."

"Really?" He swallowed. "James?"

"Doctor James Wilson. Don't tell me you haven't heard of him? He's a big wig now."

"Not much call for oncology in third world countries. It's mostly plague and dysentery and stuff."

Now she was looking at him funny. Oh shit: oncology. How do you know he's an oncologist Doctor Jones if you don't know Doctor Wilson? Bye bye fingers and bye bye Doctor Tomlinson if she doesn't shut up and stop asking questions. He'll be sharing the trunk with her on the journey home and he really hates digging graves. They take ages. Quick Limpy think.

"I think I might have heard of him. We might have met at a conference once."

* * *

"Is he okay?

"Who?"

"Your friend Doctor Wilson. It's coming back now. I seem to remember a pretty good night out at that conference, but the last I saw of him… well let's just say we didn't part on very good terms. Long story: a woman, to much free booze at the reception. Is he okay?"

"I think he is well."

"That's good."

She stared at him strangely. Yes Doctor House it is good: because there is something very strange going on here considering you were meant to be executed two years ago and you are quite obviously terrified and there is no way your hands are like that because of arthritis; and if that man claiming to be your assistant is a doctor I'll eat my hat.

"He talks about his friends all the time."

"Who?"

"James."

"Oh him." There was a pause.

"His boss – Doctor Cuddy has twins now."

"How did that happen?"

"The usual way. You do know about the whole man/woman thing."

"Doctor Tomlinson…"

"Yes."

"Stop it."

"Why?"

"Because medicine is an inexact science; because I have an unusual fear of washing machines." Because I don't want you to die. Doctor Jones shrugged. "Take your pick. I know none of that makes much sense, but there you go. This is Las Vegas right?"

Doctor Jones went back to studying the scans. "But if you talk to him again soon… tell him…" Doctor Jones shook his head. "I don't know. Tell him Doctor Jones says hi. Tell him he is getting fat and needs to exercise more."

"I will do that Doctor House."

His face turned ashen as he froze. "Don't ever call me that again." He grabbed her and glanced at 'Doctor Samuels' who was, asleep and drooling in the corner. "Do you understand me? Never again," he whispered fiercely.

She took a few steps back – shaken by his anger. "Okay." But he had already turned back to the scans.

"Would you like a coffee Doctor Jones," she said loudly.

"Love one. Add the usual sugar would you."

* * *

He chanced a glance into Thompson's eyes. He suddenly realized what was coming. He'd done all the right things. The girl had been saved. They'd just got back and the lawyer had reported the good news. But Thompson didn't look happy. In fact he looked furious. He was going to be in for it big time. He could hear his teeth knocking together. He tried to stop them, but they always did that when he was scared. He must walk around sounding like a fucking set of castanets. He put his head down and stared intently at the floor as the other man continued to speak.

Mr Thompson was short, but he had big Irish prize fighter fists. And Limpy the slave was well trained and an unresisting target as they slugged into him. It didn't take much and soon he went down. He could see Mr Grey watching disinterestedly from over by the desk. He seemed bored. That was funny. He wasn't bored at all.

"I'll leave you to finish this sir," said Grey as he picked up his files and walked to the door. He gestured to House. "If there is anything you'd like me to do…"

Thompson brushed a hand through his thinning hair. He was breathing heavily. "No, I think I can take care of him. He hasn't had a thrashing in a while and I need the exercise." Now there was an amusing concept. House didn't know anyone else who got beaten for sport. His executive stress toy Thompson sometimes called him.

"Do you want the cane?"

"No, I can handle it, said Thompson as he rolled up his sleeves."

* * *

He'd never been very witty in these sort of situations. He should be used to them by now, but all he was producing was a small pathetic drooling/gurgling sound. That was the noise he had settled on because they generally didn't like it when you screamed. It got on their nerves. The gurgling thing allowed you to express just exactly how much you hated this whole business, but not get you kicked into unconsciousness. The more intact ribs the better had long ago become his motto.

"How come you managed to save her, but not my daughter?" Thompson whispered softly into House's ear. House tried to answer, to say it was all about luck and chance and circumstance and the great game of life, but all that came out of his mouth was blood. He wanted desperately to say he was sorry about the whole thing and could he please go now and that he would be good from now on, but instead he just dribbled blood onto the floor. Very eloquent there Limpy, he thought. And you'll be cleaning that up later.

Thompson walked back to his desk. He poured himself a drink. "She was my only daughter," he whispered. He turned back to House. "I bet you don't even remember her."

Do I owe him the truth, thought House? I don't remember her. Which is odd, considering I remember all my patients. So why don't I remember her? He shook his head in half apology and half bewilderment.

Thompson's glass hit the wall above him and shattered, covering him with glass.

"Get out of my sight," spat Thompson.

It took a lot of willpower, but eventually House got to his feet and began to shuffle painfully to the door. When he got there he turned and looked at Thompson. He looked lost: sitting at his enormous beautiful antique desk surrounded by all his fine art and his trappings of wealth and power. To the outside world it appeared he had everything that the fancy magazines and television shows considered the ultimate: money, power, people who feared him.

The trembling beaten man standing at his door feared him more than anything else in the world. Mr Thompson Sir was his lord, master and his whole pathetic tiny fear filled world – and he was nothing. But for all that Thompson sat with his head in his hands; mad with grief; his shoulders heaving in silent sobs for the loss of his family and House, for all his faults could still stand tall.

He rubbed his sleeve across his mouth, smearing blood across his face, and licked his cracked lips. "I am truly sorry," he said quietly. It was pathetic, but it was the best he could do. A man who slept behind the washing machines and could be beaten senseless on a whim didn't have much to offer. House waited for a second, but Thompson didn't appear to have heard him. House quietly let himself out. There was no win for either of them in this situation.

He fell sideways onto the floor into an exhausted heap. Absurdly the only thought going through his head was dread because he was going to have a devil of a time getting the blood stains out of his best shirt. He'd have to bleach it again before Senora Maria saw it or there would be hell to pay. She was a dab hand with an electrical cord and he'd be bent over the washing machines before he knew it. She didn't like him. She'd been with Thompson's family a long time. She'd probably raised the dead girl. He could see it. The hatred: every time she looked at him.

He laughed softly. He looked at his blood stained sleeve. Here he was worrying about laundry. He closed his eyes, laid his head down on the floor and tucked his hands around him. Just keep surviving Limpy.

* * *

When he woke up next he found he had been collared and that his water bowl and food bowl were sitting near him.

He reached out a hand for his water bowl, but even that action seemed too daunting and he dropped his hand and closed his eyes again. He returned to his dreams. He didn't remember them, but he preferred his dreams. There was no hunger, fear or pain in his dreams. In his dreams none of this pathetic sequence of circumstances had ever happened. In his dreams he slept in a bed. In his dreams he wasn't a dead man wearing a dead man's shoes. In his dreams he was a doctor not a dog. Stupid stupid dreams.

She was worried about Limpy. He had not moved since he had slowly slunk through the kitchen trying to keep out of sight of Maria's office and crawled into the laundry yesterday.

Bad things, she thought. The house had a special air of tension. She could feel it. The women in her family had always felt things. It was passed down from mother to daughter. The hurt in the house made her bones ache, but she was poor and all she could do was cook and ignore her pains. They had all heard the crash of the glass from upstairs. Mr Thompson was not happy. Maybe the trip had not gone well. Maybe Limpy had not been able to save the sick one this time. They had taken him away for a long time. She had begun to think he would not come back.

Limpy was a good healer. He didn't look like it, but he had the touch. She knew that. There had only been a few times Limpy had been made to dig a grave up on the hill. Generally the dangerous men in their bloody clothes who came to the house would get better.

Limpy would spend days tending them, then come downstairs and as a reward he'd be allowed to sleep for a while. The men would leave, everyone would feel at rest and the house would go back to its normal delicate knife edge balance.

But this time Mr Thompson was angry. He was a sad man. He was angry a lot. From his battered appearance she guessed Limpy had taken the brunt of Mr Thompson's anger. Sometimes, a lot of the time, Mr Thompson would hurt Limpy. She didn't know why Mr Thompson didn't like him, but he didn't. Limpy was always bruised. Sometimes when she was doing the washing they would both pretend he wasn't crying in the corner.

Limpy had made it downstairs, but now, if it wasn't for the slow rise and fall of his chest, she would think he was dead.

She watched him as he slept in his corner behind the washing machines. She didn't understand Limpy: why he was hated so much. Why he wore a collar. Why the men would take him upstairs and why he would return hours later limping worse than usual and with a puzzled look in his eyes.

Maria said he was a bad man and deserved to be punished, but she didn't believe this. You could see bad people. Mr Grey was a bad man. Maria was still hurting. Mr Grey's eyes were a window into a bad world. But Limpy wasn't the same. I'm in pain, tired and this universe is fucked. That's what Limpy's eyes seemed to say as he was beaten. He'd yelp sometimes, but that was all. Apart from that he was horribly silent.

Every so often she caught a glimmer of hope in him. He had old eyes:

It was late. He was sitting in a corner of the kitchen cleaning all the shoes while the servants ate a late supper at the big table. She caught him glancing over at her while she cooked. His eyes seemed to say that somehow he understood her, that he was watching her and, from a distance, living through her life with her. Not for me, his eyes seemed to say, but I get it - now.

Then Maria had seen him and taken to him, screaming at him to keep his miserable worthless eyes on his work. He'd curled over the shoe he was polishing and just kept mumbling 'Yes Senora Maria' over and over as she rained blows down on his back.

Maria had made him do them all the shoes again. She couldn't hear what Maria said, but she knew Maria had whispered bad things in his ear.

It was very late when she had turned out the kitchen lights. Limpy didn't look up at her. He just continued frantically polishing as if it was the most important thing in the world.

* * *

She propped him up against the wall. His eyes opened, but he didn't seem to see her. She raised the cup of water to his lips. "Come Limpy, you must drink. You have been hurt and have not drunk in a long time." She tried to pour the water into his mouth, but it just turned red with his blood and dribbled down his white shirt, adding to the mess.

"You must drink," she repeated angrily, trying to get a response from him. "You die if you do not."

But "Tired Jimmy," was all she got as he shut his eyes. "Wanna sleep."

"James estará enojado," she said angrily in Spanish, trying to goad him.

He looked at her. His eyes (the good one and the cloudy one) focusing for the first time. "Wilson is always angry about something," he replied drowsily with a half smile. It was the first time she had ever seen him smile. "It's part of his charm. I haven't seen him for a while, but I bet he is still true to form – and stacking on the pounds."

Limpy continued talking. "He's like you Senorita. He's a good cook."

She looked at him in shock. "You just think about the little things," he said in Spanish. He put one of his funny crooked hands on hers. "How good your paella smells in the morning; Wilson's Zen garden with the teeny tiny rake that I always used to throw away when I was pissed at him. How he'd always fish it out of the trash can and patch it up so it would be there waiting for me for the next time… all the things you never consider until they're gone: then – mostly - you can forget about the big stuff."

"What is your name," she asked him.

Now it was his turn to look surprised. "Limpy," he said simply. "My name is Limpy."

* * *

She thought about his words for many days then on her day off she went into the town to see her grandmother. There is a man who has lost the will, she told her. He has become a golem. Golem was the word she used. Men made out of earth. They walked, they moved, but they were nothing more than clay: pushed around by their masters.

After the long trip Limpy had become like that. Something had happened the night Mr Thompson had thrown the glass. The words crystal nacht had come to her that night. She didn't understand those words, but she knew they spoke of glass and pain and change.

Limpy walked and moved but he had just become a lump of clay. His eyes had lost their fire. One day she had brought him food, but he had just looked at it as if he didn't understand what it was. He wouldn't even touch it. He would only eat out of his bowl. If a starving man was afraid to touch food that meant things were not right in the world.

Her grandmother had made her tea and regarded her thoughtfully. Her grandmother also felt things. Her grandmother would walk in the fields and talk to whomever she found there. Her grandmother had met many people in the fields. Her grandmother spent much time in the fields.

Find why the clay man still moves. And then find the man with the little tray full of sand and the very small plastic rake. He is, what I believe the Americans call, a Southpaw.

Her grandmother looked at her curiously. She seemed surprised by her own words.

"Southpaw," she repeated with a frown. "Is that some sort of tribe?"


End file.
